


to be a wanderer, wandering

by hydrangeasheart



Series: things that grow in the snow [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), im not writing rpf yall, when can we get a proper dream smp fandom tag GD
Genre: Adoptive Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Broken Bones, Depression, Disordered Eating, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, I need to stop adding tags, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Mental Health Issues, Minecraft but IRL, Near Death Experiences, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Really Character Death, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Serious Injuries, Sheep Toby Smith | Tubbo, Sick Character, Soft Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Suicidal Thoughts, Technoblade Has ADHD (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Toby Smith | Tubbo, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Alexis | Quackity, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Winged TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Wilbur Soot, attempted execution, did i re-edit this fic to make it so wilbur has wings? perhaps., fundy and quackity are also highkey bad in this, he's trying his best, hes the oldest dont talk to me, i mean. kind of, implied/referenced child abandonment/neglect, it's subtle but it's there, like in canon but more painful, lots of subtle worldbuilding, niki is a good friend, niki+techno friendship pog :-), nothing graphic but. You Know., oh man is this fic angst, philza minecraft's questionable parenting decisions, references to chronic pain, slightly more than canon-typical violence and gore, the occasional moment of fluff, tubbo is not doing well, welcome to jaybird's hyperfocus self indulgence fic. enjoy your stay, which sounds dark as fuck lmao, ykyk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 79,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28155291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangeasheart/pseuds/hydrangeasheart
Summary: Tommy's feet drag in the snow.It's so, so cold. He's so cold. His toes are freezing. His exposed shins feel like they’ve been cut open-- even the one that’s bandaged. His wings have gone numb, which is almost, almost good, because now he can’t feel the shifting, broken bones inside of the left one, just under feathers and muscle.He doesn’t know why he’s still walking.-Or, Tommy leaves the exploded ruins of Logstedshire behind, and walks until he finds somewhere safe.And things keep going from there.(A canon-divergent AU, splitting off somewhere around when Tommy started hiding out below Techno's house.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound, Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit & Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Niki | Nihachu & Technoblade, Ranboo & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, the one (1) ship in this fic
Series: things that grow in the snow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081070
Comments: 552
Kudos: 2338





	1. a fate worse than dying

**Author's Note:**

> i lost my author's notes and my tags when the page refreshed so im way too tired to rewrite it exactly aghhhhh
> 
> anyway this au has lived rent free in my head for like a month and i cannot stop thinking abt it. i have sbi as family brainrot so there's a lot of there. it's basically all my hcs and backstory ideas slammed into a vague narrative. 
> 
> i have like 26k of fic written for this au please help me 
> 
> fic title from since i saw vienna and chapter title from jubilee line, both by wilbur soot

Tommy's feet drag in the snow. 

It's so, so cold. He's so cold. His toes are freezing. His exposed shins feel like they’ve been cut open-- even the one that’s bandaged. His wings have gone numb, which is almost, _almost_ good, because now he can’t feel the shifting, broken bones inside of the left one, just under feathers and muscle. 

He doesn’t know why he’s still walking. He could just lay down and die. Dream probably wouldn’t find him here. No one would, actually. He could just lay down under some spruce or out in a clearing and the snow could bury him. He could freeze to death and everyone would just see the message, not his body. They wouldn’t even want to find him, they would be happier with him gone.

But he’s still walking. He’s had to resort to using a thick tree branch as a walking stick, so he doesn’t fall. Between the numbness and the cold and his lack of balance from a broken wing, he feels like he’s going to collapse at any moment. 

_So cold._

It’s getting dark. With the sun up, it was miserable, but not impossible to get through the tundra. With the sun gone, it’s not only colder, but there are also monsters. 

His stomach twists at the first growl of a zombie. 

He tries to hurry along faster, dragging his frozen feet through the snow and patchy undergrowth, avoiding bumping into trees as best as possible. He continues to rely on the branch, but it’s easier to hurry with adrenaline in his system. 

This is more terrifying than war. More terrifying than Dream’s manipulation or even Wilbur’s madness. Because out here, death won’t be swift, like it would be to another person’s hand. 

He’ll die slowly to the infection of zombie bites. Or arrows piercing his skin from the strays that roam the snow. Or a spider will entangle him in webs and eat him alive. 

_So cold…_

He struggles a little further, balancing forward on the branch. There’s a break in the trees, up ahead. 

And there’s light. He doesn’t care what it is-- hell, he’d run right into fucking _Schlatt’s_ arms if the man was there, because light means warmth and he’s so, so, _so_ cold. And, what the fuck, why not admit it, Schlatt looked oddly huggable in his life. Tommy’s on the verge of freezing to death, he can admit that hugging the ram-man would probably be infinitely preferable to this. 

(He was Tubbo’s father, after all, and Tubbo gives good hugs…)

“Please,” he hears himself say, not knowing who he’s speaking to. 

He outstretches a hand to grasp at a tree’s branch, needing more than his own branch’s support. His lips feel numb and cracked. They were already chapped as fuck, but now the blood on them is frozen and crusted. It’s disgusting. 

The clearing. He gets to the clearing. He thinks there may have been a gap there, but he’s not surprised his memory is skipping in places, like a disc that can’t catch the needle of the jukebox. It does that a lot. 

The light he saw is a house. Not a big one, but a house nonetheless. Neat and wooden, with a small cobblestone porch and burning lanterns and a horse’s stable out front. He can hear something like buzzing nearby, but he has no idea if it’s real or just his brain malfunctioning. 

_Like it always fucking does, it’s fucking broken, Dream was right, you’re fucked up_

The house looks lived in, but not currently occupied. The horse in the stable is sleeping, breath pluming faintly in the winter air. 

He’s standing in the clearing in front of the cottage, staring up at the warm, lit-up house, unable to move but leaning ever-so-slightly towards the building, when the teeth latch onto his arm. 

He screams on instinct, the sound strangled, and stumbles away from the zombie. The empty, green eye-sockets turn to him. The creature groans and comes after him, slowly but surely. 

His arm is numb. He’s sure it hurts but he can’t feel the pain under how cold he is, and maybe that’s a good thing because in the dim light he can see blackish teethmarks and blood sluggishly dripping from the wounds.

He makes it to the porch. His knee bangs into the steps as he hauls himself up them (a confused memory pops out at him-- climbing the steps of Phil’s old house with Wilbur on his heels, cackling with laughter, Tubbo somewhere in front of him, tufty tail disappearing around the door’s frame) and he scrapes his already hurt shin on the top step. 

The zombie grabs his ankle in a rotting hand, and he loses his footing between that and the slick, icy stones. His hands fly out to grab at the wall-railing, numb fingers and bitten nails scrambling for purchase. His ankle is released, but it bends disturbingly against the step and cracks painfully. It overrides the cold for a minute, reminding him strongly of his wing breaking. It feels like fire in his bones. 

He kicks the zombie away with his good leg and crawls on his hands and knees— his ankle can’t hold his weight— to the door of the cabin. 

_Please be unlocked please be unlocked please be unlocked--_

The door swings open when he twists the knob. He sobs with relief and gets to his feet, slamming the door behind him as soon as he’s clear. 

He’s inside. The cabin is cozy-looking, at first glance; the room the door opens into is bigger than he expected from the outside. He can’t appreciate details right now, not with how his temples and wounds and heart are all throbbing, but he manages to catch sight of one thing; a kitchenette, small, tucked back into the corner of the room. 

He limps over to the chests in the kitchen. There has to be food. There has to be-- there _has_ to be-- 

He opens one of them, leaning on the edge of the open chest of stability, and grabs the first food he sees-- a loaf of bread, wrapped in a thin cloth.

He grabs it, too hungry to care that he should probably eat something lighter, and tears off a piece. 

It’s not warm, but it’s not as cold as the rest of him. It tastes good. The crust is a bit crunchy and the insides are soft. 

He slumps down against the chest. It’s warm inside. There’s a fire crackling, subdued but present, in the fireplace. Whoever lives here is out, but he’s sure they’ll return soon. He’ll need to get up and hide.

He takes another bite of bread, and then sets the loaf aside. He steels himself and inspects the bite on his arm. 

It’s… not the worst thing he’s seen. He’s seen people who’ve gotten withered before, and that was… bad. That’s the worst thing he’s ever seen.

This is fairly ugly, though. The teethmarks aren’t super deep, but they are numerous (how many teeth do zombies even have? A normal adult mouth amount?) and the skin just around them is slightly greenish with poison, inflamed enough to be puffy. He’s sure the only reason he can’t really feel it is because of how awful he already feels. It’s overridden, hilariously. 

He gets back to his feet, still clutching the bread like a lifeline. He searches the kitchen chests for potions or medicines, but no luck; they’re all full of food and other kitchenware, organized but not overly neatly. 

(Something about that tugs on him, but he isn’t sure why, just like the boarlike skull mounted over the fireplace tugs at him-- he’s not able to pursue them right now.) 

He wraps the bread again, trying not to get blood on the cloth, and puts it away. 

He limps to another door, on the nearest wall. His hands are uncoordinated and in the light of the house, in the dim lanterns, he can see frozen blood and split nails on them, bleeding onto his bandages. 

His breathing rattles as he fumbles the door open, opening it into a small, neat bathroom. On the counter, various things sit-- his brain only seems fit to note a heavy-looking golden hairbrush that tugs at him the same way the kitchen and the skull seemed to. Strands of light hair cling to its bristles.

He stumbles to the sink, avoiding his reflection-- don’t look, big man, don’t look-- and falls to his knees, opening the small cabinet below it. 

_Please. Medicine, or something, please--_

In a small basket, nestled among medical supplies, there’s exactly one small dose of healing potion. Fuck yeah. 

He grins shakily and takes it out, not thinking at all before he uncorks the small bottle and downs all but a half-swallow of it. It’s warm and bubbly, like soda that’s gotten warm but not gone flat. It’s sweet and thick, too. It’s disgusting, but it fills him with energy and something like relief. 

He forces himself back to his feet. He’s not-- entirely healed. The dose wasn’t big enough. He’d have to take an irresponsible amount to properly heal him from this; he remembers Philza warning them about using too much of _any_ potion when they were young. But it’s enough to keep him from blacking out, and enough to keep him up while he cleans his wounds as best he can. 

He turns on the sink. The water comes out cool and clear-- from a well, if he had to guess. Whatever. If he had any time or consideration for the effort, he’d take it and boil it, so he’d be sure that it’s clean, but this is all he can do now. 

He adds the cool water to the potion, diluting the potion to nothing more than a faint shimmer, and puts the cork back on. He shakes it as much as he can in this state, and turns off the tap.

Now for the painful part. He unties his bandana with shaking fingers and folds it clumsily, sticking it between his teeth, and pours the mix of potion and water over his bitten arm.

When drank, healing potions are disgusting by taste, but they feel good, warm and somewhat fuzzy feeling. When applied to a wound like a salve, they sting like chemicals, because they are, if with a more magical component. 

He curses into the fabric in his mouth (another confused memory-- Techno cursing viciously into the fabric of Wil’s sweater when he had to relocate his shoulder when he was a teenager) and tries not to yank his arm away from the sink. He shouldn’t leave a mess, just in case whoever lives here will get mad. 

_Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense._

His almost empty stomach turns at the pain, the burning sensation almost too much. He’s not sure if he’s getting used to the house’s warmth or if he’s getting warmer. 

But the potion does its job; the greenish tint fades from the wounds and stops aching quite as much. The bleeding slows as well. 

“Even a little bit of a potion is good for cleaning a wound,” Phil had explained, a thousand years ago. 

He had a cut down the length of his forearm from a mishap while sparring with Techno, and while the instruction was more for the older two, Tommy had been fascinated with how he carefully mixed no more than a few drops of healing potion into water, and poured it over his wound. The skin had seemed to knit itself back together, maybe not neatly but effectively, and while it left a scar as it healed, he had seemed completely fine afterwards.

Tommy wraps the bitemarks. They hadn’t knitted themselves closed, which would be worrying if he didn’t even slightly know how the poison works. The-- the potion probably just got rid of the poison, and the wounds will have to heal naturally. That’s fine; he can take bandages and stuff from below the sink and wrap the injury. It’s fine. 

He misses a bit of time, but that’s fine too. He blinks in the bathroom and suddenly he’s in the kitchen, observing the food chests again. He must be sick, because he’s so hot even though the fire hasn’t grown and it’s now _actively_ snowing outside. 

But it’s fine. It’s fine. He’s _fine_. He’ll get something more to eat and then find somewhere to hide, so he can sleep. Sleep would be nice. Maybe he could dream about Tubbo again. Even though he knows his friend doesn’t care anymore, he’d like to dream about him. 

He isn’t really seeing much in the chests. Oh, there’s plenty of food there-- a lot of potatoes, for some reason?-- but he can’t really see it. His vision is all blurry.

He finds an apple, inexplicably pristine and healthy, which makes no sense considering where he is-- maybe the person who lives here gets them delivered?-- and bites into it. It’s so sweet and the juice from it is practically the gods’ nectar itself. He could drool, but that would mean abandoning the apple.

He munches at the apple as he snatches up a blanket from a small armchair, and finds a ladder leading below the house, presumably into a basement. The potion is already starting to wear off, and he needs to find somewhere to hide before it does. 

He drops down the ladder-- uncoordinated and feeling the pain of his broken ankle and wing below the fuzz of the potion and exhaustion-- and finds himself in a storage room of sorts. It’s packed with chests, big ones, and it smells dusty. 

Of course, he rummages through the chests. They had joked, when he was small, that he was awful like a raccoon, with how often he’d get caught going through his brothers’ things. Right now, the memory floats through his mind absently. 

(“Get out of there!” Wilbur laughs, scooping up Tommy as he digs through his box of records. “You’re gonna scratch them up. If you wanna listen to music, you should just ask me.”)

He doesn’t take much. A pickaxe, a sword (it shimmers with enchantments, which is lovely) and some more food. A few golden apples, which he also knows to be sparing with. The potion chest he finds is tempting, but it looked particularly organized, so hes too concerned to dig into it. 

Instead, he digs into the floor. Carefully, carefully, his head feeling fuzzy as he does so because he’s getting lightheaded from lack of sleep and food and _everything_ , really, he carves out a room a good way down from the house. He uses stolen ladders to connects this little room to the cabin, and tries to disguise it.

With his shaking hands, he isn’t sure how good he does. But he’s losing consciousness as he digs, so it’s all he can do to wrap his stolen blanket around his shoulders and slump to the floor. 

The blackness is a comfort and a terror all at once.


	2. i think i've made my choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second chapter bitches (affectionate) how we feeling 
> 
> thank you for all the comments and kudos that you've all already left!!! i didn't expect this to be so well liked bc i literally wrote this whole fic/au for myself dfjghdfkljgjdfg
> 
> just a little note; i know canon techno's "voices" are 1) just chat and 2) mostly in a narrative sense, but i am a mentally ill bastard that loves to project, so i definitely put in some level of my experiences when it comes to hearing voices. there's also an element of them being supernatural; i'm not gonna say why bc im fairly sure i'll write about it, but. y'know. 
> 
> i'm not as happy w this chapter, because i had to rewrite it a lot, but it lays a lot of groundwork for other things, so :-) and does writing have to be good? is it not enough to have two brothers, sad?
> 
> title from saline solution by wilbur soot. yes, i am planning to name all these chapters with your city gave me asthma lyrics

Techno has been enjoying his retirement. Genuinely. He’s sure someone who knows him would quip about that seeming impossible, but it’s true. 

It’s quiet and cold and the days are short, but not repetitive. He has a routine, though it isn’t overly strict. He has plenty to do. He tends to the bees and the turtles, he tends to his small farm (he’s had bigger, but the ever-present ache in his hands tells him this is just fine) he mines for supplies, and he catches up on hobbies he hasn’t had time for in years. 

Hell, he writes something real for the first time in ages in the first month. It’s just a scrap of poetry, nothing worth writing home about, but it’s intelligible and actually _good_ for once. 

He’s alone, but every time he feels like _alone_ might edge into _lonely_ , Philza comes around, with quiet companionship and assistance where he needs it. 

Techno has never been one to ask for help, but he’s always let Phil help him. Hell, the man was the one to pull him from the Nether and give him a home, when he was essentially a feral child with nothing but a torn leather chestplate and a chipped golden sword to his name. He can accept his help. He can accept the two of them spending quiet mornings in the kitchen, making breakfast together, frost clouding the glass of the windows. 

"Just like old times," Phil had sighed one morning, early on. Techno had laughed and leaned on the counter for a moment, because he wasn't wrong.

(The best part of the quiet, though, is how the voices are lesser now. It takes work-- he spends an hour or two after sunset killing monsters and destroying things to appease them, but they get quieter as time goes on. They still speak to him, they haven’t been completely silent since he was a teenager, but they don’t scream for blood as often as before.)

So, yes. He’s enjoying his retirement. The routine, the quiet, the almost… domesticity of it all. 

As the sun dips below the horizon, he rises from the cave he’s been mining in, feeling sweaty below his armor and clothing, but not in a bad way. It’s pleasant, in the way the burn in his muscles is pleasant. 

He yawns and stretches his arms over his head as he walks along the snow-clotted grass. He feels tired, but again, it’s pleasant. He’s ready to take a bath and then relax next to the fire with a book… 

His steps are light as he walks home. The sky is darkening, but he isn’t worried about it; he’s in full netherite with enchanted weapons, he’ll be fine. Walking after dark without armor is dangerous, but he’s not stupid.

Nothing really occurs to him as he walks home. He lets his mind wander, as it likes to do anyway; he has to repair part of the roof, because bad winds had knocked a few of the planks out of alignment, and that could cause a leak. And he needs to mend these pants, because a creeper blew up underground and while it didn’t hurt him, it exploded a goddamn hole in his favorite pants. Ugh. Oh, and Phil said he’d be coming by either that evening or the next, which is nice. He’ll need to cook something good for the two of them.

It isn’t until he walks through the small patch of forest near his home that he comes back to reality, and realizes something is wrong.

There are branches broken off the trees-- as if someone or something had ran into them-- and scraps of fabric caught on the remains. His brows raise and then furrow deeply.

As he investigates, he finds blood. On the snow, clotted onto the scraps of fabric. It’s fresh, too, not quite frozen in the lowering temperatures. Like whoever left it only came through recently.

Techno draws his sword, holding it more as a precaution than everything. The voices are getting louder, piqued into curiosity by the scent of blood. 

_Visitor??_

_Tommy!_

_Blood blood blood-_

He continues to follow the destruction (the very minor destruction, admittedly; he doesn’t think the thing that did this was very strong, or even intending to do this) with hesitation but not worry; he’s just confused as to what happened. 

Or, well. He isn’t worried until he finds the feathers. 

His heart freezes and then trips into beating too-fast. _Feathers_. Only a few people on this god-forsaken SMP have feathers of any kind, and they’re too big to be from a bird. 

Quackity isn’t anywhere near here, and his feathers are yellowy-tan anyway; these are grey. Ghostbur can't lose feathers anymore. Tommy is exiled, also nowhere near here. The only other person with wings is--

“Phil?” he calls, very, very quietly. Oh, god, if ~~his father~~ Phil is injured and hurt somewhere, he’s going to lose his mind. Fuck, fuck-- 

He breaks into a run. 

There’s more blood, smeared onto trees, among the stepped-on snow and broken wood. Not a lot of blood, but enough to have him panicking, the voices getting louder. 

_Not Phil_ _  
__Someone else_ _  
__Tommy!!!_

“Why the fuck would it be Tommy?” He thinks back, baffled. He comes out of the break in the trees, to his little property. There’s more blood, in the snow-- a decently sized, obviously still-warm puddle, because it’s still liquid. 

Bile stings at the back of his throat. Oh god, he can’t lose Phil too. Losing Wilbur was awful enough, he still wakes up in tears because he dreams about when they were happy. If he lost Phil, he wouldn’t have anything left. 

The voices continue to chant Tommy’s name, so he tries to shut them out. Tommy being the one who’s here makes no sense. They should know better. 

There are dragging footsteps in the snow, and a pile of rotting flesh near his porch. He throws it away with his sword, and looks over at Carl, passively sleeping in his stable. Techno arches his brows, tail flicking absently behind his legs. If something bad had happened, wouldn’t his horse be irritated? Hmmm. 

The panic doesn’t ease, but he’s able to think more rationally. If Phil got hurt, he’s completely capable of taking care of himself. He’s an adult, and a highly competent one at that. Techno doesn’t need to panic and fret over him. 

_It’s not Philza!_ One particularly loud voice declares.

His ear twitches, and then they both fold against his head. “Then who is it?” He asks the silent, winter air. 

He goes inside. There’s meltwater from the snow and diluted blood all over his floors (gross) and one of the chests in the kitchen is open. 

He frowns. Whoever’s been here must have stolen food… 

And the bathroom door is ajar, too. When he checks the small room, he finds blood on the counter, pooled in the bowl of the sink, and the cabinet below the sink ajar. 

A thief of some kind has prowled through his things. Not a good thief; they’ve evidently hurt themselves more than once while trying to rob him.

Panic is still running through him, but now he’s also annoyed. Goddammit, why can’t he just come home for his bath in peace? 

He goes down to the storage room. Another chest is open-- the one where he keeps golden apples and other valuables, hmm-- and there’s blood smeared on it’s edge. He checks every chest, but not much seems to be missing. A few golden apples (flicker of rage-- he quells it) a few bits of stockpiled food, a sword, maybe a pick? Not as much as he was expecting. 

“Who’s here?” He asks, not expecting an answer and not getting one. 

As he gets to the last chest, he sees an irregular pile of stones on the floor next to it. His stomach twists with anxiety; he knows what makes an irregularity like that. 

Someone tampered with his house. Which is not only awfully rude, but is enough to ratchet his natural paranoia into overdrive. 

He snatches his pickaxe off his belt and gets rid of the stones, and finds exactly what he feared; a ladder, leading below his home. 

The panic hardens into rage. How would someone dare to do something like this, and so obviously? Like he wouldn’t immediately see. He can be scatterbrained and he’s forgetful at times, but he’d notice the blood and the open chests and doors. What the fuck do they take him for, an idiot? 

He goes down the ladder, practically fuming. 

The room at the bottom is tiny. No more than a handful of feet to each side. It’s dark, too; the only light comes from the glimmer of an enchanted sword. 

He frowns. It takes a moment, but he goes back up and grabs one of his lanterns, and then drops back down. 

His stomach drops accordingly when he sees the figure curled up against the wall. 

A person-- a kid, they have to be, because they’re tiny-- is slumped over, underneath one of his blankets, unconscious. Their breath rattles in their chest, slow little inhales, and wheezes when they exhale. Incredibly messy blonde hair, matted with water and grease and blood, is a tangle around their head, dropped between their knees. 

And a pair of all-too-familiar wings rest against the wall, behind them. Grey and white and tan, still all soft with youth even if they’re messy from whatever happened. The angle can’t be comfortable, but they’re obviously completely unconscious. 

_Tommy!!!!_ The voices screech. _It’s Tommy!!!!_

But that doesn’t make sense. He’s exiled, somewhere far away. Techno hadn’t bothered to figure out where, he just knew he was gone. There’s no reason for ~~his little brother~~ the kid to be here, passed out and bloody in a little hidey-hole of a room below his house. 

Carefully, like Tommy will break into pieces if he’s rough, Techno kneels down next to him and tilts his head up. If he can see his face, he can confirm if this is him or not, and act accordingly. 

The face that he finds is battered, with split, bloodied lips and dark circles rivaling his own and an awful, awful cut on his cheekbone, oozing blood. His eyes aren’t even entirely closed; there’s enough of them open to see the color of his eyes, a dim blue. Almost grey, actually. 

But it’s undeniably Tommy. He knows that nose (a bit crooked now-- fracture?) and those cheekbones (more prominent, he’s so skinny) and that jawline (so much like Wilbur's, even though they're not biologically related).

“What happened to you?” Techno asks the unconscious teenager, who sighs shakily in his sleep. 

He needs to get him out of this room. There’s just enough space in that little hole he left above them to carry him out, if he’s careful about it. And he feels like he weighs barely anything right now, so it’ll be easy to carry him.

A fussy, older brother part of him pipes up; _why is he so thin? Has he been eating?_ _He’ll have to cook._ For a moment, he's fifteen again, making dinner while Wilbur and Tommy are busy in the living room, doing something silly or another, their laughter background music.

Carefully, he brings Tommy into his arms. His ribs are disgustingly prominent even through his shirt; it feels like holding a kitten, with how easily he can feel them shift below his skin. And his wings… they look awful, all disheveled and matted. The left one hangs crooked, like it’s broken. The blood dried into his feathers is evidence of that. 

(When he was still small, Phil had broken one of the bones in his wing. He remembers sitting huddled up against Wilbur, the older boy's wing resting over him, as their father told them how it happened, and how he was going to fix it.

It had _not_ been this bad.)

“Come on,” he murmurs without thinking about it, settling his limp form in his arms, and struggling to the ladder.

The hard part is climbing, and even that is easy enough. He’s carried Tommy before, but before it was actually a challenge, because he was a lanky, decently-heavy teenager. Now, he’s too skinny, obviously a bit underweight, and even though he’s tall, he fits almost too easily in his arms. 

He climbs up the ladder, awkwardly cradling his body against his chest. He braces himself against the top of the rough-hewn hole and the wall, and carefully lifts him onto the floor of the storage room. He turns limply onto his back when laid down, and sighs weakly in his unconscious state. His breath has a definite wheeze and rattle to it; he must be sick. (He’s not even shivering.)

Techno groans (he’s sore as hell, even without carrying Tommy) and climbs up onto the floor of the storage room as well. Now he needs to get the kid upstairs, so he can put him to bed. 

Another awkward, uncomfortable carry later (where he almost drops him halfway) and he’s finally able to drop him onto his bed. 

In the better lighting, he can get a look at what, exactly, is wrong with him. 

He’s not dressed for the cold; he’s wearing a t-shirt and torn up khaki pants, not even enough for more than a warm summer’s day. Hell, he's only wearing one shoe.

His left leg is bandaged at the shin, but blood has seeped through the fabric in more than one place, along with a similar sight on his right arm. His hands are bloody, with split nails and frozen gore, and there are cuts down the insides of his arms. The blood on his lips is mostly dried or frozen, and his nose is at least a little broken. 

His wing is _definitely_ broken, but Techno is hesitant to even touch it. He knows wings are delicate and intricate things, with a lot of muscles and bones, and that’s not something he trusts himself to handle. Broken bones themselves are fine, but in ~~his little brother’s~~ Tommy’s wings? It summons some of that anxiety he left behind when he was a teenager.

He resigns himself to gently cleaning the blood from the feathers, and tightly wrapping the broken wing. He isn’t sure if that’s good, but from what he remembers of when Phil broke his, that could help…? 

_You’re making it worse_ , he thinks. That’s not the voices; that’s all him. As usual, he’s right. 

In his sleep, Tommy groans and shifts uncomfortably on his back. His face creases with pain and he raises one of his bloodied hands to touch his equally bloody face.

“What am I going to do with you?” He asks, staring at the unconscious teenager in his bed. Predictably, Tommy has no answer. 

Cleaning up his wounds is easy. With the help of warm water on old rags and a bit of healing potion, he’s able to get all the excess blood off, and see the depths of the cuts on his face, arms, and hands. They’re not actually that bad; there’s numerous, but not all too deep. He gets them clean and covers them with bandages. 

He unwraps his arm, and winces at the sight of it. He was evidently bitten by something-- a zombie, most likely-- and while it doesn’t seem poisoned any longer, it’s ugly, the skin wrinkled and white with bright-red teethmarks. 

But he didn’t clean it too badly, honestly. He’s vaguely proud, underneath his anxiety about the whole situation. 

His leg is an older wound, on it’s way to healing. A long, vertical cut, from just below his knee to just at his ankle. It looks fine enough, but something about it makes his stomach turn. 

He wraps it up again, with fresh bandages. 

When checking out his leg, he sees that the same ankle is obviously broken, so he goes ahead and handles that. He immobilizes it with the stiff bandages that he usually uses on his hands.

Ideally, he’d get Tommy’s hair clean too, just to see what, if anything, is injured on his head, but somewhere between him wrapping up his arm and his ankle, he started trembling. 

Which is good, technically, because it means he’s getting warmer and he won’t freeze to death. Techno was shocked enough by the wounds he didn’t have time to worry about the small task of “getting the kid warm”. But the shaking is worrisome, nonetheless. 

Distracted, he drags his bed closer to the fireplace, and adds a few more logs to the fire. 

He, painstakingly gently, gets Tommy out of his worn-out, raggedy clothing, and dresses him again in one of his own shirts. It had the added bonus of letting him see both if he’s even more injured below his clothing (only bruising, thankfully) and letting him see how thin he is. His ribs have valleys between them and his hipbones are knife-sharp below his skin. He looks delicate, which isn’t a way Tommy should look.

As soon as he’s awake, Techno’s going to practically _force_ soup down the kid’s throat. 

He tucks the blankets up under his chin. He’s obviously running a high fever; his face is flushed but he’s not sweating, and he’s fire-hot against his hand when he touches his forehead. 

In the span of what can’t be more than an hour, the entire track of Techno’s retirement has been altered. Because he can’t— he can’t throw the kid out, _obviously_. He’s sick and injured (by the blood god, he can’t stop looking at that _broken wing_ —) and obviously can’t take care of himself. 

And for all his faults, for all the betrayals, for all Techno has tried to cut off and bury all feelings he has for his family… Tommy’s _still_ his little brother. He still has the instinct to protect him, even after all they’ve both done. 

_Keep him safe!!!_ The voices scream in a unanimous chorus. It’s not often they’re all in agreement like they are now. 

Techno groans. He still needs his bath; he’ll think about it while getting clean. He’s sweaty and sore and tired, and the kid’s unconscious. Just sitting around will do nothing for anyone. 

He lays a damp, cool cloth over Tommy’s forehead before resigning himself to bathing. He leaves the bathroom door halfway open. 

Tommy doesn’t stir once.


	3. it's a visceral coming-to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's canon? i don't know her (shoves the entirety of recent events into a closet) 
> 
> anyway. philza chapter fuck yeah! writing him is so fun because he's very self aware and competent but also. _god_ is it hard to get him right. don't come for me, i spent too much time hyperfixating on my techno to write anyone else well kfjhflkhfgfg 
> 
> also, tommy suffers some more. because he's very fun to hurt. i am just throwing in a bunch of hints of What Happened to him and i hope they make sense. 
> 
> little tw for this chapter that doesn't warrant a real tag: tommy has a panic attack/small breakdown.

Philza is aware that he’s not a perfect father, by any stretch of thought. He loves his sons, he really does, but he knows he’s made missteps.

(Like killing Wilbur for instance; the memory of his son begging for death and how his eyes rolled back, his mouth smiled, when he finally stabbed him, will be burned into his brain forever. 

Maybe that’s less of a misstep and more just him being a horrible person, come to think of it.)

It’s okay, though, because he’s getting somewhat of a do-over. Not with Wilbur— who’s now a cheerful amnesiac ghost— but with Tommy.

Tommy, who he virtually abandoned at age ten. His own adventures awaited, they had been for a while, and he had made the mistake of assuming his kids would be okay without him, especially with how competent he knew they were.

When he visited home the first time, a year in, he almost didn’t recognize Tommy, who had gotten taller and more… mature looking over the year. Wilbur, who had just turned eighteen, more than had his hands full with both a chaotic eleven-year-old and a violent fifteen-and-a-half-year-old. 

(He looked so tired. His eyes became shadowed, his smile became a rarity when before he was so free with it, and his temper was shorter than ever. Even his wings, so soft and a gentle shade of cream, were somewhat dingy with stress-related neglect.

It was his fault, but he never admitted it.)

He… _tried_ to mend their relationship, the few times he visited home. He really did. But Tommy stopped needing him in the way he had when he was small, relying more on his older brothers, but especially Wilbur. 

And it had all fallen apart. He hadn’t even been able to face it. He had left, and he knows Techno left not long after. And then… well. 

He gets some kind of a new chance with Technoblade, too. His middle child, his favorite boy. He loves them all, but Techno and him share something special. 

Retirement softens Techno’s sharp edges. When he visits, he’s even quieter than before, but happier. He wears his glasses again. His hair looks nicer. He wears blue instead of red. He just looks… _healthier_. 

So Phil goes along with it. Helps him build, helps him hunt and plant, keeps him company at night. 

(Helps him through odd episodes of complete helplessness, where he can only clutch his hand and whisper denials of the voices.

He’s comforted by the fact that that has happened since Techno was young and that he’s able to help.)

It’s almost like the trips they would take together when he was younger. The ones that would last months, just the two of them. (The ones that lead to them building an empire, long since having fallen apart, like so many things.)

He meant to leave this new home of his and visit Tommy. And see Wilbur/the ghost of him more often, too. But he was always busy with Techno or his own business or brief trips to L’manberg.

(It’s no secret that he plays favorites, in the most guilty way.) 

His second chance with Technoblade came easily, in moments of quiet companionship, digging farmland into cold earth (it feels so familiar) and drinking coffee together in the mornings. 

His second chance with Tommy comes with chaos. He expected nothing less. 

Phil lands lightly on the snowy grass in front of Techno’s house, letting his wings stay stretched out in the cool air for a moment to soothe them after the decently long flight from L’manberg. He doesn’t fly enough, nowadays. It’s just not practical, however much he wishes he could fly everywhere. 

Attitudes about hybrids have changed a lot over time (hell, two of L’manberg’s three presidents had been hybrids) and he’s not sure if people would be as harsh as they had been in his own youth. Of course, there’s also the matter of how big his wings are. 

He’s meant for long travels in open plains, not flying down city streets. 

He still wishes he could, though. Could be fun.

Humming, he folds his wings against his back and walks up to the cabin. He can see, through the wooden blinds, Techno walking around the house, seemingly pacing. That’s odd-- he doesn’t pace unless he’s overthinking. 

Phil knocks before entering, carefully peering into the house to see if there’s any threat; Techno can get violent when anxious, a lesson the whole family had learned the hard way. Even with how relaxed he is in his retirement, he knows him too well to assume he’ll just be entirely different.

But he doesn’t seem… _violent_ , just worried. His hair is damp-- evidently, he just took a bath-- and he’s twirling it around his fingers as he paces in front of the fire. His bed is pulled close to the fireplace, but he can’t see why, not from here. 

“Hey, Techno,” he greets, taking off his coat and hat to hang them next to the door. “Something wrong?” 

Techno hums once, a long, off-key note, tangling a lock of his hair around his fingers and pulling at it. “Hey,” he says, without looking at him. He’s obviously not really paying attention, lost somewhere within his own mind. That’s fine. 

Phil gives him a gentle pat on the back as he passes by, intent on going into the kitchen and seeing what he’s cooked for dinner (he’s gotten very culinarily inclined this past little while) but he doesn’t make it.

Because, laying in the moved bed, is an all too familiar figure. Sure, he’s thinner, and his wings are a wreck, and he’s covered up by the blankets, but he knows who it is instinctively. 

He’s a terrible father, but he’d never forget the face of his own son.

“Techno,” he says, reaching over to gently halt his pacing and taking his hand to attempt and ground him. “How did Tommy get here?” 

Techno blinks, purple eyes slowly coming back into focus, and he raises a hand to scratch his jaw. “I don’t know,” he says, eyes drifting to his unconscious younger brother. “I found him below the basement. He was just-- asleep there, and he was so cold, and he’s covered in injuries…” He frowns and steps away to gently touch Tommy’s sleeping forehead. 

He’s suddenly struck by how much his expression mirrors his own. He knows that furrowed brow, that curled mouth, the faintest of tremors in his hands. It hurts in a way he isn’t sure how to explain. 

“He has a fever, I don’t know how high it is, but it isn’t good,” his hair falls around his face and he attempts to push it back. “And I don’t know if the way I wrapped his wing is even goin’ to _help…_ ” 

“I’m sure you did fine,” Phil says, but it comes out a little weak because what happened to Tommy’s wing? “Here, let me see.”

Techno doesn’t move far from Tommy’s side, hands hovering slightly over his shoulder. No words are necessary between them, in a situation like this (how many times have they silently helped eachother, over the years? Hell, their first year together was spent in mostly silence, because of a language barrier) and he only squeezes his hand once, before focusing on Tommy. 

(About time he did that, honestly...) 

He’s worryingly flushed, his face warmer than the fireplace is, and every breath he takes rattles unpleasantly in his chest. Some kind of respiratory issue; they’ll need medicine and time to fix that, there’s no way to rush it. Taking potions when you’re sick is hardly a good idea, a lesson Phil himself had learned the hard way. 

He shifts the blankets aside enough to see the boy’s bandaged wing, and winces at how tight Techno wrapped the bandages. He knows he was well-meaning (because in every situation possible, Techno makes an effort not to hurt his brother, even if he fails on occasion) but the bandages are far too tight, and appear to be in the wrong place entirely.

He sighs. “Bring me some more bandages. Have either of you eaten?” 

The simple order seems to break through whatever’s left of Techno’s brain fog, and he manages to find them promptly. “No, he hasn’t woken up and… I might have forgotten to eat anything other than breakfast.” He hands over the bandages, and hesitates. “...should I cook?” 

“Might bring you back into the real world,” Phil jokes a little too flatly. Techno’s lips lift with the tiniest of smiles. “If you feel up to it. Whatever you want to make will be fine, I don’t think Tommy will be up for a while.”

He walks over to the kitchen, expression clearing a little as he gets to work cooking.

They work quietly, on their separate tasks. Techno cuts up vegetables with a distracted sort of precision, and Phil carefully unwraps Tommy’s wing. 

It’s not the easiest, with the kid laying down, but he thinks he might be able to get it fixed up. 

It’s an oddly deliberate break, for some reason. He had originally assumed he broke it while flying, or after a bad landing, but looking at it… that’s not the case. If he had broken it either way, it would be more jagged, a messier break all over. His wing wouldn’t look so normal from the outside, the only evidence of a break how it hangs _just_ crooked. 

But the break he has is… _precise_. A straight break somewhere around the middle of one bone, along with another fracture nearer to the top of another. 

The placement of the injury makes his own wings ache with sympathy; it must have been _agonizing_ for Tommy. He’s sure the pain must be why the feathers are so unkempt, greasy and crooked with neglect, even in the place Techno evidently cleaned. He can’t imagine preening his own wings in such a state, and Tommy has so much less experience with that.

He pauses in his assessment of the injury to brush back his dirty hair and pet at his forehead. “Who did this to you?” He asks, without thinking about it. Because there’s _no_ way this was a natural break. He’s had his own wings tampered with by another person, and while it wasn’t quite this bad, it _was_ this deliberate. 

He feels hot with anger. His skin itches with the dirty feeling of knowing this could have been preventable. 

Maybe if he had shown up to this godforsaken server earlier. Maybe he could have stopped them from leaving at all and kept them close as they aged. Maybe _he_ shouldn’t have ever left at all. Because he’s being stared in the face by the evidence of his own failings as a father; his sick, hurt child. Isn’t that proof of failed parentage, in almost a textbook way?

Phil bites into his tongue and shakes his head, trying to clear it. Now is not the time, and who’s to say this is strictly _his_ fault? Tommy has a bad habit of getting himself into trouble, of acting out, of provoking people for the hell of it. It’s not completely his fault. 

(It’s his fault Tommy acts out so much, though. Abandonment issues make kids do stupid things.)

His hands don’t shake as he carefully wraps the bandages around his wing, focusing on immobilizing it without accidentally worsening either the pain or the break itself. He’s done this before, albeit on himself. 

His hands _begin_ to shake when Tommy starts crying. “It’s okay, shh,” he soothes, but it’s fruitless. 

He shifts his wing just slightly to wrap the bandages around the underside, and he lets out a choked _scream_ , blue eyes opening in panic and his body attempting to scramble away. 

Something clatters to the floor in the kitchen, but Phil can’t focus on that, because Tommy’s mumbling in a slurred panic, eyes cloudy with fever and sleep, nothing like recognition showing in them. 

“No, no, please, don’ hurt my wings again, please, ’ve been _good--_ ” Tears begin to pour down his cheeks, and he wobbles on the edge of the bed. “‘M sorry, please!” 

“Tommy,” his voice comes out as a plea of his own. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

The gentle assurance is completely unheard, because he draws his legs up to his chest (revealing all the bandages on his bare skin, Techno wasn’t kidding when he said he was covered in wounds) and hugs them tightly, sobbing. “I’m sorry, I’ll be better, please just _don’t hurt me again_!” 

Phil reaches in, gently, and brushes his fingers over his shoulder. He would ask if he’s comfortable with being touched if he thought he’d even hear him, but between the panic and the fever, he’s fairly sure he’d have a better chance of getting a brick wall to listen to him. 

He still tries it. “Tommy, I’m going to touch your shoulder, okay?” He rests his hand on his trembling shoulder, and he gasps wetly, through his tears. He winces at how prominent his bones are; he can feel his collarbone dig into the side of his hand, the joint of his shoulder almost sharp against his palm. “Shh, you’re alright. It’s just me, it’s just Phil, you’re _safe_.”

Tommy is just muttering “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ ,” under his breath now, face tucked against his knees, trembling like he’s freezing despite how hot he can feel he still is. It hurts something inside of him to see him so _scared_. 

What happened to the vibrant, passionate teenager he was just a short few months ago? What made him this crying, weakened shell of himself? He knows that Tommy of a few months before wouldn’t break down like this. He’s always hated showing vulnerability, even when he was small. 

_Who did this to him?_

(He thinks about the tiny five-year-old he found huddled behind a trash bin in a village near their property, dirty and obviously hungry, tired too, yet so determined to fight him off. He had that crude little wooden sword in his hands, and he had held it awkwardly out at him. 

He knew from the moment he saw that light in his eyes that he had to protect him, that there was something he _recognized_ in him.)

“You don’t have to apologize,” he assures him, unsure if he’s listening, and sits down on the edge of the bed. He rubs circles on his shoulder with his thumb. “You’re okay. I just need to finish wrapping your wing, and then you can go back to sleep. Can you let me do that?” 

“Don’t touch my wing, _please_ ,” he sobs against his knees. “It hurts, don’t touch it, please--” 

“I’ll be quick,” Phil assures. “If I leave it unwrapped, the break is going to get worse, and you might not ever be able to fly again.” The words feel thick in his mouth, like he’s swallowing honey without any of the sweetness. 

It’s a painful prospect, the idea of an avian hybrid no longer being able to fly. He thinks about how he only ever feels like he can truly _breathe_ while flying, and wonders if that’s part of the reason Tommy’s in such a state. He can only imagine how insane it would make _him_.

The sobs begin to slowly cease, and he peeks up from his knees. His cheeks are wet with tears, clumping his light eyelashes together, and there’s a split in his lip that’s been reopened by his fit. He looks his age, for once. “...I wanna fly again,” he murmurs. “Will it hurt?” 

“Only a little,” he promises. “I’ll be as gentle as possible.” 

He slowly uncurls, settling on the bed a little better. “Okay,” he mumbles, shuffling over so he can actually reach him. His injured wing extends slightly towards him. 

“Thank you, Tommy, you’re doing so well,” he praises gently, knowing its one of the few things that’s always comforted his youngest. “It’ll only take a moment.”

“Mhm,” he agrees with a sleepy hum. The panic is leaving him, and the fever is only wearing him down again. He doubts he’ll even remember this when he next wakes up. 

He carefully moves the loosened bandage back into place, and secures it carefully.

The sight of the clean, almost sterile bandages against the dirty, matted feathers make him want to fuss over him like he did when he was little, straightening them out and getting them clean, but he feels that would be crossing a boundary. And he’s already so terrified… 

“Food’s done,” Techno calls, voice sounding faint. “Is he alright?” 

Tommy’s eyes are half-open, and he makes a sleepy noise in response. Phil isn’t sure he’s actually conscious, let alone able to speak. He gently lays him back down in the bed, and he goes willingly. It’s easy to tuck him back under the blankets, and he spends a long moment staring down at him. He looks simultaneously older and younger than he should. 

“He’s fine,” he replies finally, forcing himself away from his youngest’s bedside. At the table, there’s only one plate set out; Techno only has a mug clasped in his own hands. “You’re not eating?” 

“I already ate,” he mumbles. “While I was cooking. Not very hungry, anyway.” 

His brows furrow. There’s an unspoken tension between them, when it comes to food. It’s half the reason he comes over for dinner so often, because he knows otherwise, Techno will just _forget_. Not on purpose (he doesn’t think so, at least) but he’s not good at listening to his body about things. 

(Not just hunger; he got stabbed once and didn’t think to mention it until they were home.

That had been… a _night_.)

He knows right now is not the time to press on this, but he tucks it away for later. “So, how exactly did you find him?” He asks, starting to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't like this chapter very much but after this we get more fun tommy angst stuff so 🤞 also ive just resigned myself to posting fic when its done and not obsessing over it bc obsession is the death of me so unless theres an error do not criticize me /hj
> 
> the working title of this chapter was "philza minecraft's questionable parenting decisions"


	4. i thought i couldn't love anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another tommy chapter!!! y'all ready to Cry??? and it's the longest yet!!!!!!!! woooooo!!!!!!!
> 
> fun fact; i don't have like. a super set plan for this au. like i have a plot (even if it's fairly bare) but i really just let my inspiration and need for family hurt/comfort drive me. it's called creative liberty
> 
> anyway, this sets up some backstory stuff!!! some Past Events!!! there is Tenderness! Affection!!! perhaps even some Gentleness!
> 
> small tws; implied disordered eating due to depression, implied self harm and suicidal ideation (nothing graphic, it's just kinda there), more references to dream abusing tommy, and some more of What Happened with tommy's wing. there's also like one line that implies some kind of sexual abuse, but it's more tommy being paranoid than anything that actually happened. none of that warning is actually part of the plot.
> 
> title from your sister was right by wilbur soot! (which is my favorite wilbur song, it is the best and if you disagree get off my fic /j)

Time wears on. 

Tommy sleeps for two days and runs a fever for most of it. 

(Techno is on pins and needles the whole time. He doesn’t sleep willingly, too focused on worrying over the unconscious, sick teeenager that was all but dropped into his lap. He kept himself busy with repairing his weapons and reading about wound and illness care and organizing the whole house in a fit one morning. His thoughts are a frenzy, trying to keep him awake.

It isn’t until he sees himself in the mirror and mistakes the circles under his eyes for bruises that he realizes he should probably sleep. It’s late in the second day, and he can’t actually remember the last time he slept, before this. (Phil probably forced him to rest not too long ago. He’s good about doing that.)

And the stress has only worn him out further, the voices constantly echoing his anxiety back to him, sharp chants of   
_if you take your eyes off of him he’ll die  
_ that made it impossible to rest.

He sank into a chair at Tommy’s bedside. He was unconscious within moments, but he didn’t sleep for more than a few hours before waking up in a panic, fully expecting the body in his bed to not be breathing.

But he was fine.)

When Tommy wakes up, he doesn’t know where he is, just that he’s freezing and someone is touching him and he can’t move his wings and he can’t _breathe_. 

Someone is speaking, the voice familiar but not at all comforting, and he squirms out of the restrictive cocoon of blankets he’s in, tumbling to a wooden floor and scrambling to his feet. One ankle feels leaden with pain, but he can’t focus on that.

All his brain is screaming is _not safe don’t trust it Dream is here_ and he sways in place, anticipating angry hands and shouting and burning. Anticipating pain, though he isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve it this time.

He has no weapons. He had a sword, he took it from— somewhere?— but it's gone now and he’s dressed in different clothes with no pants on, and _oh_ the implications there— 

Something flashes in the corner of his vision and he swings heavy, cold hands at it. Someone curses and he feels wetness on his fingers and _oh god he hurt someone_ — he hurt _Dream_ — and he knows the punishment will be dire. 

_He’ll go through with the threat about cutting off my wings this time, oh god—_

“Sorry,” he says immediately, tongue feeling numb and cold like, he’s shoved a chunk of ice in his mouth. For some reason, it’s hard to breathe evenly, and the little air he can get feels thin. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, please don’t..." His fingers fumble without coordination to the only thing he has of value. His compass. That’ll make Dream go easy on him, right? “You can have this, just— please don’t hurt me!"

“Tommy, I’m not going to hurt you!” 

That voice… It's not Dream. It’s too deep and too genuinely _concerned_. And it’s so familiar. It makes him think of sword fighting and strong hands and facial scars and pink hair and blue clothes and—

He catches sight of crooked black glasses and purple eyes and he’s suddenly back in reality. 

_Technoblade_ is staring at him, eyes wide. Blood drips from his nose, obviously from Tommy punching him. His glasses are off-center and there’s a cautious kind of concern in his expression. 

He has his hands up, palms forward, trying to look as un-intimidating as possible. “Tommy,” he starts, softly. It doesn’t sound like his normal voice, but it’s still familiar. When was Techno that soft with him? Years ago? It must have been when they were all still living together… “I think you should lay back down,” he says, stepping forward with a hand held out. “You don’t wanna wear yourself out.” 

Tommy steps back, clutching his compass. His tongue is still numb. “How did I get here?” He asks, looking around in blind confusion. The cabin is as he remembers, modest and warm, and there’s a fire roaring in the hearth. (But he’s still so cold. He tries to draw his wings in closer, but one of them hurts something awful and both are stiff with disuse, so he lets them droop.)

“You walked, if I had to guess.” His older brother crosses his arms and watches him curiously, eyes flickering over his form for whatever reason. “I found you under the house, remember?” 

He blinks unevenly. _Does_ he remember? Not really. He knows he got here, at some point, to this little cabin in the tundra… and he stole things… and then Techno found him—? 

This is Techno’s house? Oh, _fuck—_

“Yeah, I remember,” he lies. He only remembers part of it, but his head is aching and he can’t force himself further. “Why… why do I feel so awful?” He steps forward, wanting nothing more than to lay back down. But he’s not sure what he’s doing here or what’s wrong with him or why Techno hasn’t run a sword straight through him. 

“You’re sick,” he explains patiently. “You’ve had a fever for days, and you’re underweight, and you were pretty hurt…”

He nods along. That… makes sense… there was a zombie at some point, right? And his ankle, and his wing.

His wing.

He reaches up to touch it, and his fingers meet bandages, neat and secure around him. His heart sinks. “Oh. That one is actually broken, huh.” His voice loses all energy, and he slumps. The memory is rushing back and it _hurts_ . He had hoped, vainly, that that was a nightmare, that Dream didn’t-- that he hadn’t-- but he _did_ —

Techno catches him and brings him into a warm hug, something so familiar yet so far away from what he expected. He’s warm, so warm. “Yeah,” he says, oddly soft. “Phil had to bandage it. You can’t fly…” 

He lets himself be dragged to bed. Techno lays him down on his side, so he won’t crush his hurt wing, and brushes his hair back from his face. “Your fever’s finally broken,” he says. “That’s good. It’s been _way_ too high— I was about to start panicking.” 

Tommy nods along, feeling heavy and tired even without the fever, even after sleeping for god knows how long. “Where’s Phil?” He mumbles. Wasn’t he here? He can remember hearing his voice, at some point. And he apparently took care of his wing.

He thinks he might hear a huff of annoyance, and he can definitely see Techno’s ear flick, golden earrings catching the light. “He went to L’manberg,” he says, his clipped tone evidence that he doesn’t approve. “He’ll come back soon enough. You’ve worried the hell out of both of us.”

He mumbles and presses his face against the pillow. His stomach hurts and he doesn’t want to move. (He doesn’t deserve their concern.) “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry I’m here. When I’m better, I’ll-- I’ll leave…” 

“No, no, hey,” Techno brushes his hair back, concern flickering on his face. “You don’t have to leave. I have space for you, and you’re sick. You can’t fly, either, so it’s just stupid to leave.” 

Tommy might still be a little feverish. Because he’s not sure this is real. _Technoblade_ is willing to let him stay, after he (broke into his house? stole from him? showed up beaten and sick to his peaceful little cabin?) forced his way back into his life? 

Techno hasn’t seriously wanted anything to do with him since he moved out at eighteen. 

The idea of him caring about him again is good, though. Growing up, they had been close, at least until Techno left. 

It was Techno who taught him how to cook, how to sew, how to properly put on armor. It was Techno who insisted he could go hunting with him, when Wilbur and Phil were too cautious to let him. After Phil left, it was Techno who cooked and farmed and hunted for them. 

Techno had never been as touchy-feely as Wilbur, so for someone as comfort-seeking as Tommy, their relationship hadn’t been as easy. But they made it work. 

And then he moved out.

(After that awful, _awful_ fight with Wilbur, the one where they both threw things and screamed at eachother, the one that made Tommy barricade himself in the closet with his communicator so he could talk to Tubbo all night, because he didn’t feel safe.

The one that left Techno flinching around their older brother, that left Wilbur with a split eyebrow, that left Tommy jumping at shadows and raised voices for years.

That was a bad night.) 

(-and then there’s everything that happened after that. 

Betrayals upon betrayals. 

Tubbo’s firework scars. 

Withers. 

_“Do you want to be a_ **_hero_ ** _, Tommy?! Then_ **_die like one!_ ** _”_ )

One older brother is already dead and so different as a ghost. Maybe he should appreciate the comfort of it all, while he still has it. 

Tommy observes his brother, tired eyes trying to find any evidence that this is a trap. 

All he can see are the dark circles under Techno’s eyes, a shade or two darker than the purple of his irises. The rumpled fabric of his shirt and cape, suggesting he’s been sleeping in his clothes. The blood drying under his nose, forgotten and unheeded. How his hair is only shoved into a halfhearted ponytail, loose strands sticking out all over.

He looks unsettlingly _human_. Sometimes Tommy forgets, really, especially considering the harm he’s done, that Techno is only a man at the end of the day, piglin blood aside. That the ever-confident, regal-looking King Technoblade is only a facade, a cover for the nervous, awkward person underneath. 

He thinks about Techno reading to him at night. He used to have such terrible nightmares, and Techno was the only person who was ever awake so late. If climbing into bed with Wilbur didn’t work, he would sneak into Techno’s bed, and ask him to read something. Anything. 

(It feels like morbid foreshadowing now, but when he was small, Techno read him the story of Theseus several times, and it always put him to sleep.)

He recalls a thousand tiny memories; Techno carrying him when he was little. Techno sneaking him outside their home’s barriers to go hunting. Techno teaching him how to sword-fight.

Techno baking cookies for him on his birthday, because he was the only one who could get them right. Techno with a cup of coffee in the morning, drowsy and quiet, his hair untied and practically a fluffy cloud around his face. Techno with his old, dorky glasses, the ones on that silly golden chain... 

The gentle version of Techno who now only exists in fractured childhood memories. 

For all his betrayal, for all he’s hurt Tommy, he’s some of the only family he has left. 

“I’m staying,” he says, quietly. 

Techno smiles, no feral edge, no madness, only _kindness_. “You are,” he confirms. “Now, I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.” He gets up, suddenly very brisk and businesslike. He only pauses briefly to wet a rag and clean the blood from his face.

Tommy stares after him. “Do I have to eat?” He asks, maybe a little childishly.

Techno grabs a bowl from one of the chests, and immediately ladles some kind of thin, light looking soup into it. “Yeah?” 

When he frowns, pushing himself up to sit against his pillows, he glances at him and pointedly raises his brows. “Tommy, I don’t know the last time you ate. Judgin’ by how skinny you are, it’s been weeks since you had a full meal. You’re _goin’_ to eat.” He places the bowl in his hands, and forcefully puts his palms around it and a spoon. 

He doesn’t know why, but that simple action, paired with the demand for him to eat, has him taking a hurried spoonful from the bowl and swallowing it. He can’t taste much— now that he’s awake and focused on something other than blind panic, he’s aware of how congested he feels— but it’s warm and at least not disgusting. 

(Dream would force him to eat, sometimes. Not like this-- he’d threaten him with more violence, honestly-- but the words are similar enough.)

“I ate when I first got here,” he mumbles around his spoon. He’s suddenly not very hungry at all. “I stole an apple.” 

“I noticed,” Techno says dryly, grabbing himself a bowl as well and settling in a chair next to Tommy’s bed. “Did you eat any of the golden apples you stole too?” 

He tries to piece his memories together, to recall if he did. He surely would feel better if he did… “I don’t think so.” 

“Good,” he has no spoon, and simply sips from the edge of the bowl. Tommy can hear his tusks click against the polished, carved wood. “You’d wreck yourself even further, doin’ that. Glad to know you have some sense left.” 

It’s-- almost normal, and Tommy laughs abruptly. Techno’s brows raise curiously. 

God, for some reason this feels so _normal_ , like he’s a kid again, sick in bed, with Techno fussing over him and Wilbur off somewhere, probably getting more blankets. With Techno gently teasing him for getting sick in the first place, because he did something silly like-- like fall into the lake they used to fish in or stay out late chasing fireflies. 

“After you eat, I’ll have to check your wounds,” Techno offers, over his faint giggles while he tries to eat. (God, Dream was right, he’s really cracked.) “You’re healing well, all things considered. Maybe we can get your hair washed out today, too.” 

He attempts to run a hand through his hair, and then winces as he only meets nearly-matted tangles. “That’d be nice. I can’t remember the last time I did it.” 

“That’s gross,” Techno mutters under his breath. “Yeah, we’re definitely washin’ it out today.” 

Tommy hums in agreement (he’s pretty gross in general right now) and takes another bite of his soup. “So, you’ve been living out here? For how long?”

“Eh, few months now. It’s… different.” The lightness disappears from his voice, and even in his subdued state, Tommy’s aware of the awkward tension that’s settled over them. 

Because why wouldn’t it? Their last major interaction was him dying by Techno’s hand. Was Techno spawning Withers in L’manberg. Was-- was another betrayal. 

His appetite is entirely gone, but he dutifully takes another mouthful of soup. He can kinda taste it now, but mostly just the salt of it. He can’t eat anymore. 

He rests the still-warm bowl on his lap. It’s still halfway full, but he doesn’t want to finish eating. He’s not hungry. 

Techno watches him for a long moment, he can feel the familiar weight of amethyst colored eyes. 

“You need to finish that, you know.” A moment’s pause. “You’re not going to get better if you don’t eat, Tommy.” 

He fiddles with the bowl. “I’m not hungry,” he mumbles, barely above a whisper. 

“What?” It’s just how Techno’s voice usually sounds-- kind of blunt and sharp at the same time-- but for a moment, he’s not in this warm cabin, he’s sitting on the ground with Dream in Logstedshire. 

And Dream is holding his wrist in his hand, tightly, blunt nails digging into the thin fat there. “ _What? Speak up_ ,” he says, calm, sharp, blunt. Empty of compassion, filled with hate. “ _Stop mumbling_.”

Tommy swallows a mouthful of saliva that makes him feel like he’s going to vomit. 

“I’m not hungry!” he says, a bit too loud, but much clearer. “I--I’m not hungry, Techno. I’m sorry.” His cheeks burn when he looks up, and sees something so-- so familiar on Techno’s face. 

It’s not pity; Techno doesn’t pity anyone. But it’s something similar. Sympathy? Whatever that looks like. He’d gotten used to Dream’s false sympathy, a thin icing of sweet concern over malicious glee. But this doesn’t feel like that.

There’s a bit more silence, with the two of them making tense eye-contact, before Techno shrugs, expression clearing, settling into the neutral that he’s so known for. “Alright, fine. You’ll have to eat again later, but for now, this should be fine.” He takes the bowl away and carries it to a small sink. 

Tommy is suddenly very aware that he’s shaking, and not just from the cold. His hands are sweaty and his heart is racing. 

Techno isn’t mad at him for not doing something. Of course he isn’t. When has Techno gotten mad at him for not being able to do _anything?_ Techno is many things, but he isn’t needlessly cruel. (At least, not like that. Needlessly violent, perhaps, but not needlessly cruel.)

He forces himself to take a deep breath. He feels strangled by the blankets around him, by the bandages wrapped around his limbs. He wishes more than anything that his wing wasn’t broken, that he could just go outside and fly away, into the sky, into the sun, until he burns up into nothing but ash-- 

“Hey,” Techno says, quietly, suddenly at his side again. His hand hovers over his shoulder. “Are you okay?” 

He tries to take another deep breath, but he chokes on a cry and has to bury his face in his hands. He’s not going to break down. He’s not. He’s _not--_

“Here, let me check your injuries, then maybe you can go back to sleep,” he’s speaking softly, not quite quiet enough, but comforting nonetheless. It makes him feel small, like he’s ten again and Techno’s still one of his idols. “If you’re not too tired, I can wash your hair, too.” His hand settles on his shoulder, gentle. ( _familiar, someone else did that not too long ago, who?_ )

Tommy forcefully rubs his tears from his eyes, rubs the snot from under his nose with his sleeve. Gross. Now he really feels ten; he threw fits a lot even at that age. 

“Okay,” he says, forcing down the panic, the fear, the sadness. 

Techno’s hands are gentle as he checks over his bandaged arm, leg, and ankle. The split in his lip (finally healing after such a long time; Tommy can’t remember when it happened, but he knows it was a while ago) and the cuts on his arms. He doesn’t pry about why they’re there. 

(A murky memory from when Tommy was young, but more knowledgeable-- the view of Techno sitting, teary-eyed, as Wilbur wrapped cuts on his arms in their bathroom. He must have been only eleven or twelve, but instinctively he knew the cuts were self-inflicted.) 

“You’re a mess,” Techno mumbles, putting a fresh bandage on his cheek. He scrunches his face instinctively. “Quit that, I can’t cover this when you do that.” 

The speed that he forces his face to relax is probably unnecessary. 

Once he’s all attended to, he feels sore just from sitting up and letting Techno manipulate his limbs. Ugh, being sick and hurt _sucks_. (Why is he complaining? It’s his fault.) 

Techno’s disappeared for the moment, into another room, so Tommy props himself up on the edge of the bed, attempting to untangle his hair with his fingers. Its all greasy and stringy, because he hasn’t bothered to take care of it for a while. The last time he can remember washing it… it was when Dream did it for him, right? When he wasn’t able to move because of his wing being broken and the pain being so great. Maybe. 

The cabin he’s in is nice. It’s simple, but there are little touches that make it so undeniable who lives here; the skull above the mantle (the one Techno’s worn as a mask, like the dramatic bitch he is) and the old, old blankets folded in the armchair (he actually recognizes one of them as one he had when he was a kid) and the way everything is organized, but not _neat_. It’s all set up in a way that works for Techno, and probably Techno alone. 

Of the places he could end up, this is a good one. Kind of. He’s still not convinced Techno doesn’t resent him for being here (he has to deal with him now, sick and panicky and incredibly hurt) but at least he’s warm and cared for and has food to eat. He doesn’t think Techno will take away his things and destroy them, and while he’s violent, he wouldn’t hurt him for no reason. 

(He won’t-- no. He’d never.) 

(Phantom pain strikes through his bandaged left wing, and he bites into his hand for a moment, until it passes.) 

“Alright, we’re goin’ to have to get you out of bed for this,” Techno walks out of the bathroom with soap in hand, and walks briskly to the kitchen. Tommy isn’t sure what he’s thinking (it’s so hard to read his expressions sometimes) but his eyes are red. Has he been crying? “Because you’re in my bed and I’m not gettin’ it all wet. Do you think you can get up?”

He places his feet on the smooth wooden floor, and grimaces at the idea of putting weight on his broken ankle. He can’t believe he broke his ankle on some _stairs_ after all he’s been through. What a bitch move. “Yeah, probably.” He braces himself for the pain and stands. It’s… actually not as horrible as he expected. Yeah, it hurts, but he’s relatively stable. 

_Fuck yeah, I am so good._

He tries to take a step, and almost falls face-first on the floor, in pain and shame. It’s only because of Techno all but appearing at his side that he doesn’t. 

_Maybe not so good._

“You’re fine,” he says, apparently expecting Tommy to apologize. He frowns. “Should’ve thought about your ankle, sorry. C’mon.” He’s guided carefully to a simple chair in front of the sink.

“You’re lucky I have a lot of experience dealin’ with really tangled hair, y’know. If I didn’t know how to fix it, we’d have to cut it all off.” Techno chuckles quietly, and the sound comforts him in a way he isn’t about to dissect. 

“I refuse to be bald,” he mutters. “What do you need me to do?” 

“Lean back and don’t complain too much when I untangle your hair.” 

Tommy nods, resolving to not do that, and settles in the chair, even getting his wings out of the way so Techno himself has no reason to complain.

It lasts all of five minutes into the process. While Techno is carefully untangling his now-wet hair with a comb, he starts complaining.

“That hurts,” he whines. “A lot.” 

“Well, your hair is a mess, so it makes sense,” he says without sympathy, pouring water over his hair. “You’ll be fine. It’s going better than I expected.” 

He groans pointedly with pain when he just barely scrapes his scalp with the comb. 

“Aren’t sick children supposed to be less annoying?”

He scowls. “I’m not a child.” He flicks water on his face and he splutters, indignant, not caring that it makes him cough. “You bitch!” 

He has more choice words and insults planned, but his cough gets worse and he has to sit up, water dripping down his shoulders as he wheezes for breath. His chest hurts and he feels like he can’t get enough air. 

His hand settles on his back, gently, and rubs comforting circles. There’s really nothing he can do for a few moments, but desperately try to draw in a full breath, raising a hand to grasp at his own chest. 

He’s offered a glass of water as soon as he’s able to breathe with any sort of stability. He sips from it shakily. “Feelin’ any better?” Techno asks, still rubbing his back. 

“Not really,” Tommy mumbles. He’s suddenly so tired, and everything kind of just… hurts, now. He sinks back against the chair and closes his eyes. “Can we finish my hair, so I can go to sleep?” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

They’re completely quiet for the next few minutes, save for the occasional muttered curse of discomfort. Techno doesn’t try to pick at him again, but instead washes his hair with an almost laser focus.

It starts to feel nice; the water is cool, and the little he can smell of the soap is nice, something simple and plain. And it’s obvious that Techno is really trying not to hurt him now. 

All told, Tommy almost falls asleep sitting up, leaning back over the sink. 

He misses time again, maybe because of said almost-sleeping-- he closes his eyes still at the sink, with Techno’s claws gently scratching his scalp as he rinses his hair, and opens them sitting on the edge of the bed again. His hair is damp (dried just a little, presumably with the towel on his shoulders) and he’s barely able to keep his eyes open. 

“-pretty long,” Techno’s speaking, as he runs the comb through his now smooth hair. It rests in cool curls against the base of his neck. “When did you last cut it?” 

Tommy leans forward and places his forehead against the center of his older brother’s chest. “Dunno,” he replies, closing his eyes again. “Few months, I think. Wilbur cut it a while ago.” 

“Ah,” he pats his head before setting the comb aside. “Are… are you plannin’ to sleep on me, or should I lay you down?” It has all the inflection of a joke, but he could dare to say he sounds flustered. Haha. 

“You’re a good pillow,” he argues sleepily. “I’ll lay down.” He leans back, and then flops onto his side in bed, yanking the blankets up. His good wing drapes over himself as an extra layer, while he tucks the other close to his back. There-- nice and warm.

“Sleep well,” he hears, distantly. A hand brushes through his still-damp hair. 

He doesn’t know why-- maybe it’s just being sick, maybe he’s just too tired-- but he feels safe, dozing off like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tommy spends like, so much of this au sleeping and being sad, and for that we stan


	5. i had my cake, i ate it, it ate me too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a chapter not named with your city gave me asthma lyrics?? whataconcept.png 
> 
> a fun chapter w TWO perspectives babey. i am so tired of looking at it and i lowkey despise it but i think y'all will enjoy it! 
> 
> backstory stuff,,,,, lots of angsty backstory stuff :-) also dream is here. why did no one tell me writing him being all cryptic is so FUN. we're finally gettin into plot stuff!!! next chapter also has more people!!!
> 
> all tws for this chapter are covered in the tags! minor self-harm, past abuse, a panic attack, a lil breakdown, just not good times all around. 
> 
> tommy is awake in this chapter but At What Cost. 
> 
> but there are also hugs so it evens out. finally my soft technoblade tag is coming into play. he's just a gentle man. a good brother.
> 
> longest chapter so far..... past 5k babyyyyyyyy
> 
> title from feel better by penelope scott!

_The walls of the cave are close and almost spiked with spines of rock._

_Techno feels small as he steps closer to his partner, a hand going out instinctively to grab at his. “What are we lookin’ for, again?” he asks, just to fill the oppressive silence._

_Dream tilts his head back towards him, smiling. Due to the two of them being alone, and him genuinely trusting Techno, he’s not wearing his mask. “I found some ruins down here, I thought maybe you’d want to check them out. Not a stronghold, I don’t think, but some kind of…_ **_temple_ ** _?”_

_Something feels wrong about this situation, but he can’t figure out why. He fiddles with his hair-- shorter than he expected. “It does sound interesting,” he mumbles._

_Suddenly, they’re in the ruins, tall and stark against the walls of the open cave, made of obsidian, shot through with something redder than blood. Dream pokes curiously at what looks like an altar with his sword. “Wonder what this is for.”_

_“Probably nothin’ good,” Techno shrugs, inspecting the runes carved into the altar, inlaid with that same red material. Not redstone; it’s too solid. “Sacrifices, probably.”_

_“Yeah, probably. Why else would they have a creepy temple underground?”_

_Nothing seems right. The wrong feeling has enveloped everything._

_Dream grabs his hand, and pulls his arm over the altar. His palm is warm and he’s not wearing his gloves, so their hands are touching, bare. “I wonder what would happen if I added blood to it.” He has a knife in hand, one of the ones off his belt._

_Techno can’t fight; he doesn’t know_ **_why_ ** _he doesn’t fight. He’s aware, now, that this isn’t real, that it’s (ironically) an actual dream. He needs to_ **_wake up_ ** _. This isn’t even how this event happened--_

_He cuts into his arm, just below his wrist, and blood spills from his skin. It splatters onto the altar, making the runes glow._

_The voices begin to scream, and scream, and_ **_scream_ ** _. Suddenly, Dream’s unmarred, young face has been slashed, blood pouring from the wound across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He isn’t screaming, face completely impassive, green eyes sparkling, but the voices continue._

_He’s fairly sure he starts screaming, too._

Techno wakes up with a brief cry, before he raises his hand and bites into his palm to restrain himself. He’s shaking, he realizes, sitting up straight and stiff in his armchair. 

The voices are nearly silent in reality, only faint murmuring. No screaming, no, they have little reason right now. One of them mumbles about him waking Tommy, but his little brother is still asleep. He can see the top of his blonde head under the blankets, the fluffy feathers of his wing over the top of them. 

Where he’s biting into his hand, he can taste blood. It’s morbidly comforting, and it calms him enough that he can pull it away. His palm is bleeding, though not badly; he didn’t bite hard enough to really hurt himself. 

He gets up from the armchair (his back protests, he should _not_ be sleeping in chairs, but Tommy’s taken over his bed and he hasn’t made a new one yet) and goes to the bathroom to clean his hand. 

He rinses the blood away, revealing the small marks his teeth left. He wraps the small wound. His hands need the stabilization, anyway; they’ve been hurting again. (He can’t believe his competitive drive and hyperfocus made him ruin his hands for the rest of his life. It’s almost funny.) 

It’s just after dawn. The sky outside is lightening, in shades of pink and grey and blue. He drinks a glass of water in the kitchen while staring out the window, feeling tired and antsy. That’s not a new feeling; he usually feels like that. 

It’s been worse the last week, because he has a sick teenager sleeping in his bed, but still. Not that weird. Even with Tommy sick and needing to be protected ( _keep him safe keep him healthy make him happy_ ) his anxiety has definitely been higher at other points in his life.

He just doesn’t know why he’s started to have that dream again. He hasn’t spoken to Dream in… a while. And never meaningfully enough to drag up that awful memory. Sure, it’s always there in some way (because of the voices, those have never calmed since that day in the ruins) but he doesn’t usually wake up in a fit of panic about it, anymore. Why would he? It’s been years.

He runs his fingers through his hair, undoing his ponytail. He isn’t sure why, he just-- he wants to know it’s still as long as he thought it was. It is, falling around his waist heavily, warm and clean and soft. He wraps the strands around his fingers and tugs, rooting himself in reality. It feels… not _good_ , but it’s enough.

“Techno?” Tommy’s voice asks sleepily. “Are you awake?” 

He sets the glass down on the counter and sighs. “Yeah, I’m up. What is it?” 

“...I had a nightmare.” His breathing is getting better already; he’s able to talk without wheezing, something Techno’s quietly happy about. “Can you, um. Can you come sit with me?” 

Techno rubs his eyes. He needs his glasses, before the small ache behind his eyes becomes an outright headache. “Yeah, sure. Gimme a sec.” He has to search in the dimly-lit cabin for wherever he placed his glasses last (he has a horrible habit of just… setting them down wherever when he takes them off, it was such a pain in the ass when they lived somewhere bigger) but he finds them sitting behind the sink, because of course they are.

Apparently, Tommy has become more patient in the last few months, because he doesn’t complain about the wait. He’s just sitting up in bed, hugging himself loosely, looking very small. For a moment, he wonders if he’s somehow gotten _younger_ while he wasn’t looking, because that scared, small face is more fitting of the kid Phil brought home a decade or so ago. 

He sits down on the edge of the bed and tilts his head at him. “Do you need to talk about it?” he asks, like he has the past few mornings. Yesterday, Tommy had woken in a panic again (not as bad as the first time he was lucid, but still bad) and he had to talk him down, which was especially hard, considering how the only thing he could say was _I’m sorry_. 

Right now, he seems calmer, just… sad. He pulls his legs up to his chest and hugs them, all pale skin and bandages. 

“Do you miss Wilbur?” he asks bluntly. 

Techno could answer honestly, and say he does, because… _he does_. 

He loved Wilbur more than words, in a complicated sort of way. Their relationship was hard and they spent more time fighting than anything else, but _fuck_ if he didn’t adore his older brother, so intelligent and kind until madness and revenge and power warped his perceptions. 

Even if Wilbur had hated him for a multitude of reasons, even if he thought he was a monster, they were still family, closely-knit, bonded over some of the worst experiences possible. 

(Late nights talking very candidly about their mental health. 

“I don’t want to kill myself, but…” Wilbur leans back on the roof’s wooden surface, holding a lit cigarette dangerously close to his wrist. His cream-white wings stretch out on the wood and look stark in the moonlight. “I don’t want to be here.”

“The voices want me to hurt you and Tommy and dad,” Techno admits all on one breath, burying his face in Wilbur’s stomach. “I don’t _want_ to hurt you.”)

(Late nights where Wilbur would come home drunk and tired, giggling at a figure Techno didn’t bother to identify (it was Schlatt, it was _always_ Schlatt) and he would be on the couch, waiting up for him, long after the younger kids were asleep.) 

(The ruins. Techno coming home blood-soaked and dissociated, clutching a torn handful of Dream’s hoodie, unable to unclench his jaw in fear of screaming until he choked. Wilbur being the one who brought him inside, even though Phil was still there at the time, and washing the blood from his skin without words or pity.)

(Even meeting for the first time, they knew there was something similar about them. A wild desire to ruin things, even if only in a small way.) 

But he could also lie, lock away those feelings, and say he doesn’t. 

“Honestly, Tommy?” He leans back on his hands, planted on the bed. “I don’t know if I miss him.” 

His little brother nods along, his expression surprisingly mature. “I don’t know either,” he admits, hushed, like he doesn’t want to be heard. “I mean, I miss him, ‘cause he-- he practically raised me, you know? But… how he acted before he died… and sometimes when we were younger…” He hugs his legs closer to his chest, unbound right wing wrapping around his side. “He really scared me, sometimes.” 

He thinks about how, even before power corrupted him, their older brother was… unstable. It’s not like Techno has any room to talk (voices aside, he has anxiety and layers of trauma thick enough to cut with a knife and all sorts of behavioral/attention problems) but with Wilbur it always held an edge of danger. 

Techno is dangerous because he’s strong and motivated for violence by mental/supernatural voices. Wilbur was dangerous because he couldn’t control himself when he was mad. 

“In my nightmare, he was just… _screaming_ at me,” Tommy continues, shivering at the memory. Techno shuffles closer and rests his hand on his arm, hesitant to do more without asking and not knowing _how_ to ask. He’s touched him very little, barring carrying him when he first found him and checking his wounds. “He was mad about… everything? I’m being lazy and not listening to him and not doing what he’d want me to do.” He laughs, a quiet, odd little sound. “It’s _stupid_.” 

He recalls his nightmare, waking up so panicked he had to bite himself to calm down, over a memory nearly seven years past. 

“It’s not stupid,” he says, reaching out an arm. “C’mere. Do you want a hug?” That’s a normal thing to ask, right? Especially for your traumatized brother? And even if it isn’t, it’s cold.

(And maybe he needs the hug, too.)

Tommy’s eyes grow wide and he nods, straightening out his legs over the edge of the bed. He wraps his arms around Techno’s middle and resting his head on his shoulder. He’s warm, but not feverish, and shaking slightly. 

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not stupid that you got scared of Wil sometimes. Hell, he scared _me_ sometimes.” 

He shuffles in closer, curled up against his side. He’s very aware of how thin he is, and it makes him pull a face in concern. He knows a week won’t be enough to reverse _however_ long of not enough food, but it still worries him. Especially because Tommy doesn’t eat unless told to. 

“I don’t think he ever _meant_ to scare us,” he shrugs as much as he can with how he’s wrapped around his older brother. “Maybe in the _end_ , he did. But when we were younger, I think he just… wanted us to listen.” He pauses. “We were never very good at that. Me especially.” 

“Mmhm,” Techno agrees, fixing his eyes on the dwindling fireplace. “Remember how mad he got when you snuck off with Tubbo for two days? When you went to find that treehouse?”

Tommy laughs shakily. “Oh, fuck, he was pissed. Pretty sure he was still mad about that when he died.”

“He was mad about a lot of things when he died,” he sighs, resting his cheek against the top of Tommy’s head. The affection is… nice. He’s a little bit touch-starved, because the only person he lets touch him is Phil. And… Tommy, now, he supposes. “...I think I miss him.” 

“Yeah. I mean, Ghostbur’s… _fine_. But I kinda miss him when he was alive,” he turns his face against his shoulder and sighs. “I miss his hugs.” 

He chuckles in agreement and gives him an only slightly awkward squeeze around the middle. “Go back to sleep, it’s still early.” 

Just about the only thing that’s easy about Tommy’s recovery is getting him to sleep. He sighs heavily and climbs back under his covers, snuggling himself into the mattress. 

(That’s one of many things that’s different about him. Tommy’s never slept easily. 

One of many things; like how he flinches away from the fire when it’s too intense, how little he eats, how he stares at Techno like he expects him to attack.) 

He pets back his bedhead, before leaving him to sleep. 

—

“I’m bored,” Tommy announces, later that afternoon.

“Well, unless your broken ankle has magically healed itself in the fifteen minutes since I checked it,” Techno doesn’t glance up from his book, reading the familiar words without taking them in, “you can’t get up. Do you want something to read?” 

“Reading is boring,” he complains, crossing his arms. “I want to go outside.” 

“Too cold,” he shakes his head. “You were hypothermic less than a week ago, and you’re still sick. Letting you go outside would be a horrible idea.” 

“Then what am I supposed to do?” 

He raises his brows, pushing up his glasses. “Read a book, Tommy.” 

“Fuck you,” he says, completely maturely. Techno chuckles and goes back to his book. 

Tommy sighs, sinking back against the pillows. He’s never done well having to just sit still and hang around. He’s bored and antsy. If he wasn’t sick, if he wasn’t hurt… he’d get up and go exploring. Or something like that. Or go find Dream and blow up at him for all his bullshit. 

For some reason, the idea isn’t as satisfying as it was before. Dream wasn’t… that bad. Sure, he… _hurt_ him, but he also took care of him and sang him to sleep a few times and stayed with him even when everyone else ignored him. He was mean sometimes, but Tommy always deserved it. 

His bound wing hurts. 

Then maybe, if he could get up, he’d sneak into L’manberg. Sure, Dream would surely be lurking around somewhere, but he’s fairly sneaky. He misses Tubbo so much, even if he might not miss him. And he misses Fundy and Ranboo and Quackity and Niki. He just— he misses _everybody_. He’d do about anything to see them.

Techno’s fine company, he guesses, but every interaction they have feels weird. Tense. Mostly because anxiety comes off the piglin hybrid in waves, and because of how ill Tommy is. Both mentally and physically, haha. 

He’s still not convinced Techno won’t throw him out as soon as he won’t die from it.

Abruptly, his older brother stands from the armchair, head cocked as if he’s listening to a far off sound, eyes locked on the window. His left ear twitches up, and his tail whips anxiously behind him.

Tommy’s brow furrows. When he looks to the window, he can’t see anything but snowy plains. “What is it?” 

“Do you think you can climb a ladder?” He asks, not looking at him. 

“Uh… maybe? Why?” 

He drags his eyes from the window and stares at him. He’s surprised and a little scared to see a bit of panic in his eyes. “I need you to go downstairs. Into that little room you made.”

“What?” He shuffles to the end of the bed, putting his feet on the floor, a dark kind of excitement settling in his stomach. “Why, what’s going on? What did you hear?” 

“I don’t have time, just-- get up,” Techno storms over to the door and grabs his sword from where it’s hanging next to his cloak. His hands are shaking. 

Tommy crosses his arms and stares after him. “What’s happening, Techno?” 

He huffs. “It’s Dream. I think, anyway.” He rubs his ear and grimaces. “Just… we’re playin’ it safe. Go downstairs and stay there until I come get you.” 

_It’s Dream._

He swallows, steadying himself as much as he can as he gets up. He’s all too aware of how cold it is, how none of his borrowed clothes fit, how he’s unarmed and sick and hurt.

 _Dream’s coming. Run. Hide. He’ll be so pissed at you for running away. Maybe even enough to break your other wing or just cut them both off. Or finally just_ **_KILL YOU._ **

_HIDE._

“Tommy,” Techno insists. “I can hide you, but you have to get out of sight.” 

He nods and limps towards the ladder into the storage room. Techno doesn’t follow him, pulling his cloak around his shoulders and securing the clasp at his throat. All traces of anxiety leave his face, smoothed into complete indifference. 

He climbs down unsteadily (he can walk, but his ankle flares with pain every step and he’d rather not) and walks to the empty, black mouth of the tiny cave he made for himself. He swallows thickly again. Dull panic burns at the bottom of his stomach, in the back of his mind. 

He goes down after grabbing one of the lanterns and covers the hole with stone. There’s another lantern down there, completely burnt out; Techno must have brought it down when he found him. 

God, he can’t believe Dream is approaching them. Why did he think he’d be safe at all, here? Techno could easily just rat him out. He and Dream… aren’t exactly friends anymore (he thinks about Techno crying over his cut hair and Dream mocking him every time they met after that and the curious scar on his arm) but they have a weird rapport. A sort of mutual… understanding? 

_Would Techno tell him where I am? No, no, probably not. He’s putting all this effort into keeping me alive. He wouldn’t tell him where I am, it’d be a waste of his time, and Techno does_ not _waste time._

_He wouldn’t tell him. Right? Right?_

He sits down on the floor, pulling the lantern in close for some kind of warmth. He finds the enchanted sword (so he did steal one!) and takes it in hand. He doesn’t think he could fight, even walking to the basement made him winded. But it comforts him anyway. 

He can just hear Techno walking around, feet above him. He leans against the wall close to the ladder, trying to listen hard. His muscles are tense with the instinct to run. 

Someone knocks on the door. It’s opened, and he can hear Techno’s calm-as-can-be greeting. “Dream.”

“Hey, Technoblade,” Dream replies just as calmly. Tommy recognizes the cool amusement in it. He pulls his legs up to his chest and hugs them, trying to regulate his breathing. “Going out?” 

“Yeah. Why are you here?” Not beating around the bush at all. 

“Just figured I’d check up on what you’re doing. Got to make sure everything’s going fine, right?” 

Footsteps, entering the house. He notes that he didn’t ask to be invited in; he can almost imagine Techno’s split-second scowl at the impoliteness. It’s almost enough to distract him from his panic. 

“Nice little place you’ve got here. How’s being retired from violence treating you?” False kindness, dripping off his words like honey. That’s how he always talked to Tommy after he hurt him. 

He can’t get enough air. His wings hurt like someone has their hands around the bones, _pulling_.

“It’s fine. I like the quiet and the free time,” more footsteps, a chest opening. “What are you doin’ in there?” 

“Checking things out,” the chest closes. “Have you been having company?” 

“That’s really none of your business, now is it?”

Too much silence. Another chest opens and shuts roughly. 

“Technically, everything that happens on this server is _my business_. Have you been having company?” The anger in his voice is subtle, but he knows it so well. He wants to scream, and bites into his cheek to prevent it.

“Phil’s visited a few times,” he admits. Tommy fiddles with the sword, running his fingers along the shining, enchanted surface. Pressing the tips of his fingers against the sharp edge just enough to sting but not bleed. “That’s all. I’ve been mostly alone.” 

“Hm,” Footsteps, crossing just above him. Roughly where the bed is. His heart speeds up; is there any evidence that he’s been sleeping there? No, of course not, it just looks like a messy bed. Right? God, his head’s spinning.

The next question is seemingly random. “How are your hands, Techno?” Steeped with false concern. “I see a lot of bandages. Are they still hurting that badly?” 

More quiet. Techno’s foot taps. “Yeah, I-- I messed them up buildin’ this place. It is what it is.” 

“Makes sense.” A floorboard creaks. “Are you sure?” 

The foot-tapping gets louder. Tommy pulls his legs closer to his chest, resting his chin on them. He’s cold and panicky. “Yeah, I’m sure.” The door opens again. “Can you leave? I have to check on my bees.” 

“One more thing. What’s downstairs?” 

Tommy puts his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. Dream _can’t_ come downstairs. He’ll be too close, and Tommy won’t be able to keep quiet if he’s that close. He’ll start crying or screaming and he’ll get caught and--

“Storage room. I keep extra supplies down there.” 

“Can I take a look?” 

“Don’t see why, but sure.” 

Tommy scrambles to the other side of the small room, as far from the ladder as possible. He keeps one hand over his mouth and wraps the other in his long hair, tugging at the soft strands at the back of his head. He’s so close. Any minute now, Dream will be just above him. 

_He’s going to find me he’s going to find me he’s going to find me!_

He forces himself to breathe, even though every breath rattles, aching through his chest. It _hurts_ , hurts almost as much as the sound of every footstep above him.

Dream’s voice is so, so fucking _close_. “What do you have so much enchanted gear for?” 

Techno’s voice belies a slight irritation. “It never hurts to be prepared.” 

“What are you preparing for? Hopefully not any more destruction.” A chest opens and closes. 

“No, not really, just keeping myself safe. I’m a changed man, you know.”

Tommy breathes in sharply, pressing his back against the rough-hewn wall, as Dream crosses the room with sharp steps. He hears Techno huff with annoyance. 

“Are you, really?” Dream asks, so quiet Tommy has to strain to hear it. The instinct to cling to the man’s words is so, so strong. He digs his fingers into his hair and pulls at it, hard, muffling himself on his hand as he begins to cry. “You’ve completely changed your ways? You’re not doing anything like before?” 

“Is it really that unbelievable?” Techno replies, equally quiet. 

“Knowing you? Yeah, it’s _really_ unbelievable.” A sound he can’t identify, followed by Techno inhaling sharply. “Remember the temple, Techno? That’s why I can’t believe you.” 

What feels like an hour of silence follows. 

Tommy drops the hand from his hair to dig his fingers into his arm, blunt nails cutting into his skin to try and stop himself from falling apart. He feels blood well up and stain the shirt he borrowed from Techno. That’s fine. That’s _fine_. The two of them know how to get blood out of just about every fabric. 

“I’ll be seeing you,” Dream says, voice too normal. “Have a nice rest of your day, Technoblade.” 

He climbs the ladder. He can hear the trapdoor smack closed, and then the door after another moment or two. 

Something clatters above him and Techno lets out a few seconds of absolutely _hysterical_ laughter. The sound is almost inhuman, and he flinches further away from the ladder, fingers slipping against the slick blood on his arm. 

The stone above him is removed, and the light from above is briefly blocked by Techno’s form. “You can come up now, he’s gone.” His voice wavers slightly, like he’s restraining some strong emotion. “C’mon, it’s cold down there.”

Tommy swallows a mouthful of saliva tinged with iron (he must have bitten through his cheek again) and struggles to his feet. He’s shivering. He carries the lantern and the sword with him as best he can as he climbs the ladder.

He pauses halfway up and nervously taps his fingers against the wooden ladder. “Are you sure?” 

“Mmm, yeah. He’s gone, trust me.” Techno sounds like he’s still in the basement. Waiting for him. 

He pulls himself up from the hole, sitting heavily on the cool stone floor. He’s still panicky, though it’s lessening. _Dream isn’t there. Dream didn’t find him. Dream is gone._

He gets back to his feet, swaying heavily on his right side to keep himself stable. His arm and jaw and head all ache, and that’s not even counting his already extant injuries. “I…” he swallows again, tasting more blood. 

Techno doesn’t look good. He’s paler than usual, the circles under his eyes seeming a bit darker, and his hand rests on the hilt of his sword even now. His expression is flatly upset, eyes wide with something close to horror. There’s a spot of blood on his lip. 

He usually doesn’t look so alarmed, and especially not after talking to Dream. 

Tommy looks him over with furrowed brows, his concern for himself drifting away. “Are you alright?” 

He swallows. “Yeah, I’m okay.” His tired eyes look him over in return. “Are you? What happened to your arm?” 

“Uh.” His stomach twists and he looks at the blood on his arm, slick and dark against the light-blue fabric. “I got freaked out and hurt my arm...” His mouth tastes like blood and it’s freaking him out a little. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Techno’s hand leaves the hilt of his sword to scratch at his opposite palm, expression troubled. “Let’s get you upstairs, back in bed.” 

He nods, and they climb up the ladder. He feels like something should be different about the living area, but it’s just the same as before. 

“Sit down, I’ll clean up your arm.” He’s back to acting all businesslike, calm. If his hands weren’t shaking and he wasn’t still disheveled, he’d look perfectly normal. “And then I’ll make lunch.” 

Tommy doesn’t argue against it. He sits down on the edge of the bed and rests his arms on his knees, staring at the floor. Everything hurts from his fit and having to walk around made his breathing get all wheezy again. God, this is awful. 

_Useless. Weak. You’re a useless child._

When prompted, he unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off of one arm. He doesn’t really pay attention to the little cuts on his arm being cleaned and bandaged. It only barely registers as important. He has too much pain to focus on the new one.

He focuses on his breathing, which is steady again, at least. He doesn’t feel… _safe_ , but he feels safe _r_. He doubts Techno would let Dream of all people do anything to him. The embarrassment of that is probably a motivation, more than keeping him safe. 

He feels it when Techno lets go of him, saying something quietly as he steps away. 

He stares at the floor some more, seeing Techno’s boots disappear from his sight. He wears heels. Why does he even wear heels? Maybe just for the aesthetic. (Or maybe because he was always bitter about Tommy and Wilbur being taller than him. That was fun to pick on him for.)

“Hey,” Tommy says, weakly. He presses his hands against his knees. “Can you give me a hug?” That morning was the first time they hugged this whole time, but he needs the stability of being held. 

He steps back into his view, and when he manages to glance up, he can see the worried expression on his face. “Yeah, of course.” 

He wraps his arms around him, gentler than he would ever guess he could be, and pulls his head against his chest. He’s warm, just like he always is, so unnaturally warm. He remembers, on cold winter evenings when he was little, curling up in Techno’s lap just so he wouldn’t freeze. He misses that, being small enough to be held like that. 

Now he’s just a ( _ugly stupid awkward horrible useless_ ) lanky teenager with too long limbs and bad proportions and bad posture. Sometimes he wishes he was still small, that he could have frozen time when he was about nine and his whole family was still together. 

This is nice, though. Sitting down like this, he can rest his head on Techno’s chest and wrap his arms around his waist, pulling him as close as he dares. It’s nice, to hold him and be held in return. He feels… he feels safe? Actually safe, not just safe _r_. Because for all his faults, Techno is a good protector. 

He isn’t aware that he’s crying again until Techno pets his hair back and shushes him softly. “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he soothes, fingers carding through his grown-out hair, untangling the knots made by pulling it while he was hiding. 

Tommy hiccups and clings to his cloak, hiding his face and his tears in the fabric of his shirt. He hums soothingly, the tune a little rough, but undeniably a form of comfort. 

“I’m not any good at this,” he admits quietly, still petting his hair. “But I’m here, ‘kay? You’re alright. You’re stayin’ with me, and you’ll be safe here.” 

He sobs, pressing himself in closer, wanting to be protected from the awful world around him. Crying is worse, because it makes it harder to breathe, but he can’t help it. He’s so tired, and sad, and he feels useless and tiny. 

“Please don’t let him hurt me,” he sobs out, not thinking about it. “Please, I can’t-- I can’t do that again--” 

“Shhhh,” he soothes, his hand dropping to rub his back. “I’m not going to let him hurt you. I mean it, you’re safe.” He starts rocking him just slightly, gentle movements back and forth. 

He grabs at the fabric of his shirt and practically melts into the affection, almost tipping off the bed as he leans into him. His uninjured wing stretches out and wraps around his older brother, trying to prevent him from leaving.

He doesn’t know why he believes him, why he thinks _Technoblade_ of all people would want to protect him, why he would even bother to, but he wants to believe him. He wants to believe he can actually be safe for once. That he's not just a useless child.

The sobs only get worse, and he’s barely able to breathe for the wheezing and the tears.

“Deep breath, Toms, you’re goin’ to choke yourself,” Techno strokes his hair back from his face again, pushing him back just a little so he has more space.

Tommy forces in a breath that’s way too shallow. It’s cut off with a harsh cry that hurts down to his core.

He smiles patiently anyway and nods. “Yeah, like that. One more time?” He actually manages a deep breath this time. It rattles, his lungs downright hurt, but at least he gets it right this time. The way his older brother’s face lightens feels like sunlight in his chest. “Keep goin’, you’re great, Tommy.”

By the time he’s allowed to slump back against his chest, feeling drained, he’s able to breathe evenly again. 

“Ow,” he mumbles, thick with tears and snot. 

Techno chuckles, patting his head. “I’d imagine. Tired?” 

He blinks against his shirt. “I don’t want to sleep,” he admits quietly. “Can I help you cook, or something?” 

He pulls back a bit, still within arms reach. “Yeah, you can sit at the table and cut things. It’s really cold out, so we can make stew for tonight, and I’ll find somethin’ for lunch.” He helps him to his feet, and gently squeezes his shoulder. He wants to melt into the touch all over again. 

“That sounds good,” he replies quietly, his voice a little ragged from crying. 

Techno holds him for a minute more, before leaning down to press a kiss between his eyes. (Like Phil used to when he was little, like Wilbur used to do before bed every night.)

He swallows another wave of emotion. “Can I have an apple?” 

He grins. His smile is crooked; one side of his mouth rises higher than the other. “Of course. C’mon, let’s cook.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am going to go take a nap now thank you
> 
> comments of any kind make me go :-) but esp long ones so if you want my undying affection pls leave a long comment (/j, you all have my undying affection anyway! because i love you!)


	6. shout at the wall, 'cause the walls don't fucking love you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DOUBLE UPDATE REAL??????
> 
> haHA bet y’all didn’t expect chapter 6 so fast!! this has actually been written the longest out of everything posted; it’s the reason tommy has wings in this au, after all 😉
> 
> did you come to this fic for pain? yes? GOOD. this chapter is essentially just hurt/comfort, except like. bad comfort. the person doing the hurting is also doing the comforting. is dark hurt/comfort a thing? it should be.
> 
> holy shit dream is SO awful in this chapter it was so fun to write. that sounds fucked up but like. its the truth
> 
> but yes this chapter is,,, pretty heavy. like, this is all a flashback chapter about what happened to tommy's wing, with no real lightness to break it up. this event is really like. the end of tommy's sanity. it's the reason he's (waves) like that.
> 
> for timeline purposes, this happens a few days before dream destroys logstedshire. it's one of the reasons tommy leaves. 
> 
> if you don't want to read this chapter-- because it deals with emotional/physical abuse, manipulation, gaslight-y themes, etc-- i will provide a summary in the end notes to catch you up! stay safe!
> 
> title from jubilee line by wilbur soot

"Get the fuck back here!" 

Dream's voice is sharp, like the axe in his hand, dripping with the same ruby-red blood that falls from Tommy's lacerated shin. 

His wings beat viciously as he flies higher, higher. His leg feels a little numb, and blood pours down his leg. Honestly, he feels lightheaded and tired, but he has to stay away from the masked man below him. 

He turns toward the nearest tall tree, wings flapping lightly as he settles atop it. He knows-- he knows he can't stay here. He can't go back to L'manberg, but he can-- he can just _run_ , right? The whole world is open to him. He can-- he can just fly away like he’s always kinda wanted to do. 

(A thousand years ago, he and Tubbo had discussed it. It was during his time in Pogtopia, when Wilbur was constantly on the verge of madness, when everything was so horrible. 

“If we leave, we _have_ to go together.” Tubbo said firmly, tangling their fingers together and resting his forehead on Tommy’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I could manage without you.” 

They had only decided not to run because Tommy couldn’t leave Wilbur, insane as he was becoming. Because Wilbur was _still_ his older brother, regardless of what was wrong with him.

He regrets it.) 

He sits down on a thick branch, keeping himself vigilant, and rummages in his bag to grab bandages, which he keeps plenty of. He wraps his leg, carefully tightening the bandage around his shin to press the cut skin back together. 

_I’ve gotten pretty good at this,_ he thinks, trying not to look at his bandaged forearms.

"Tommy!" Dream shouts, somewhere to his left. Not far. He's getting closer.

He should get back into the air. Maybe, he could... he could go find Philza? They've never been the closest-- Wilbur and Techno were always much closer with their father, even though he's sure he loves him just as much. But in this situation, he would surely help him, right? He's still his _son_. They’re still family, right? He could help him...

Tommy shivers when he hears Dream's axe slam into a nearby tree. He needs to fly away. He even gets to his feet on the branch, sneakers pressing against the wood and making the bark crackle slightly. His wings spread out behind him, tan and white and grey. The feathers are a little greasy with neglect, but they’re still serviceable. More than, really.

He doesn’t have time to go back and get anything from his secret room, but that’s fine.

He could just. Go. Step off the branch and. Take off. He can outpace Dream with his wings. 

"Get back here, come on." Less anger, now-- more... concerned? "We can talk. I'm not mad anymore, come back." 

For some reason, it makes him hesitate. Talking it out might be nice. Dream is his friend, right? 

They could talk about it. They could talk about it over food and then Dream could sit next to him and pet back his hair like he's done the past few nights, making him feel like a little kid and like he's not a damaged teenager who no one loves. 

He's been so lonely, and Dream is really, _really_ nice sometimes. 

"Come on, Tommy." Dream is nearby, probably only feet away. He could just drop down from the tree and be seen. 

Tommy sits back down, pulls his legs up onto the branch. Who is he kidding? Leaving would be a horrible idea. Phil doesn't want him, doesn't care that he's all alone. Ghostbur hasn't been around in days. Techno doesn't care, either. His family has abandoned him. 

_And so has Tubbo..._

He hugs his legs, pressing his arm hard against his wounded leg just to feel the pain. God, he's so _stupid_. 

"I'm over here, Dream," he calls quietly. 

Through a break in the trees, he can see Dream's white mask. "What are you doing up there?" He asks, way, way too friendly. "Are you alright?" 

Tommy presses his arm harder into the wound. Blood is already seeping through the bandage. "Yeah," he lies. "I'm sorry I tried to run away. It was stupid."

"It was, I'm not going to lie to you." Dream strolls over to the tree, looking up at him. He can't see his eyes, but he can feel the weight of his gaze. "I'm sorry I cut you, though. That was stupid too."

He sighs. "I deserve it," he mumbles. "You were just trying to stop me." It’s not like it’s the first time he’s hurt him. He can’t count how many times he’s grabbed his wrist hard to stop him from doing something or slapped him or pulled his hair when he wasn’t paying enough attention. And that’s not even counting taking all his stuff...

(That morning he woke up to Dream holding his head under the water, the sky black in the pre-dawn, his blank mask somehow portraying malice--)

"C'mon, get down from there," Dream says softly, reaching up a hand to help Tommy down. 

He takes his hand, oddly appreciating how long and calloused his fingers are. He's reminded of Wilbur's hands, and it makes his stomach hurt. "Are you mad at me?" he asks, intertwining their fingers. Dream doesn’t stop him, and it feels nice.

"Not really," he says, leading him back towards Logstedshire. "I get it, y'know? You're lonely, you're lashing out. You're _sixteen_ , dude." He laughs lightly. 

He laughs too, but he isn't amused. He feels a little sick, but that isn’t new. "That's good, thank you," he smiles shakily. 

They walk, quietly, for a few moments. Tommy flew further than he expected, and it's evident in how sore his wings are. He hasn't flown in a while. 

(In fact, the last time he really did was with Tubbo. He had finally convinced him he wouldn't drop him if he flew carrying him, and while it had been a very short flight, it had been nice. Really nice. 

Maybe he just wants Tubbo to cling to him again. He’d never complain about it now. He’d do just about anything to have him all cuddled up to him again, safe and happy.) 

"Tommy?" Dream asks, still light. "You're not going to try and run away again, are you?" 

Tommy hugs himself, pulling his wings in tight to his back, and focusing his eyes on the ground. "I don't think so," he says, too quiet. He’s aware he’s changed, and it makes him sick. He can barely recognize his memories of himself from a few months ago. "It's not like I have anywhere to go,” he adds, because it’s true. 

What could he do? Show up at Techno’s house, wherever it is, risking his life because Techno _does not like him_? (he doesn’t blame him; he’s a rotten, useless child and he betrayed him so viciously.) Find where Phil has built his own new place and be a burden on him all over again? (like he wasn’t the reason he left in the first place.) 

(Kill himself and wander around as a confused ghost just like Wilbur--?)

(He’s considered that one, actually.)

"Exactly," Dream’s fingerless-gloved hand settles atop his head and ruffles his hair. It feels nice, and he closes his eyes. "I'm the only person who cares about you, you know that, don't you?" 

The words aren't _kind_ , but they are generally truthful. He nods along. 

Dream's hand drops from his hair to his back, settling in between his wings. The contact, even through his jacket and shirt, makes his skin crawl-- he really doesn't like people touching his wings, or his back in general. It took him years to even trust _Tubbo_ enough to touch them, and that was something his best friend was very grateful for. 

The fact that Dream is doing it so nonchalantly makes him feel… something. A bad feeling settles into his stomach.

The leather of his glove scratches against his coat. He bites his tongue to keep from complaining. The affection, the physical contact, feels so good, but he doesn't _want_ Dream to touch his wings. 

Suddenly, there are fingers combing through the thick, fluffy feathers on his wing, close to the base of it, and then _curling_ around the top, around a bone. 

It doesn't hurt, so much as feel... really, _really_ violating. He doesn’t let _anyone_ touch his wings like that, not since he was small and needed help to preen them, and even then, he only let Phil do it. (That’s ignoring the few times Tubbo had helped him; but that was different, because he trusts him.

He doesn’t trust Dream like that.)

_What’s going on?_

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice hovering somewhere between panic and outright terror. He isn't sure what Dream's planning, but he knows it can't be good. 

"I," he starts, fingers settling a bit more firmly around his wing. The leather feels weird. "am going to make sure you won't run away again." 

He doesn't understand, because he just said he won't. He only tried because he was frustrated. He _just_ said he knows it's stupid.

He pulls at his wing, and the _snapping_ sound comes before the pain registers. It only really felt like he pulled, so what was that _sound_? 

The pain hits him like a blow to the face a few seconds later. 

It's so much that it immediately becomes nausea, and he stumbles almost drunkenly away from Dream, bracing his hands on a tree as his vision blurs and twists and bile burns at his throat.

It feels like a nightmare. All he can focus on is the pain and how one of his wings is clearly broken in some way. 

Because while one can move just fine, coming up to protectively wrap around that side of his body in response to his emotions (a self-soothing gesture he shares almost exactly with Phil) the left one hangs crookedly from his back, every minute twitch of muscle sending pain through his entire body. 

It's broken in such a way that the feathers almost touch the ground, which doesn't make sense because they're not-- _long_ enough to touch the ground...

 _Dream broke my wing, Dream broke my wing, Dream broke my wing with his bare hand like it was_ **nothing** _, oh_ **god** _how is he strong enough to do that?!_

The only person he's ever met who's strong enough to break bone with their hands is Technoblade, and that's only because he isn't fully human. Even so, he's not able to do it with _one hand,_ and never so casually. Dream... is only _debatably_ human, but he looks and moves like one, so how the _fuck_ is he strong enough to snap bone _with one hand?_

God, it _hurts_. 

He chokes on a sob and his legs give out. He falls on his knees and tries to breathe evenly, because he's somehow aware that having a panic attack really isn't going to help in this situation, but it's hard. Because every movement he makes only sends more pain through him. 

He feels sick. Dream snapped his wing like it was nothing, like it was a fucking stick, and the horror, the _violation_ that he feels is visceral. He feels like he did far more than break his wing; he feels like he broke open his chest and touched his organs, fucked up something permanent and intimate and private inside of him.

The only other time he's ever hurt his wings is when he was very small. He was six or seven, and still learning how to fly. He had made the mistake of trying to fly when it was too windy. Phil hadn't been home to stop him, Wilbur had gone inside to get something to drink, and Techno was asleep under a nearby tree with a sunhat covering his face.

It was just Tommy and the open sky. 

He had leaped from their porch into the air, giggling because he felt so, so _free_ , and climbed higher and higher just for the joy of it all. 

It had just taken a shift of the wind, and some muscle was pulled the wrong way, and he went down _hard_. 

That had been a bad day. He broke his arm, bruised a few ribs, and injured a muscle in his left wing. Everyone had panicked and fussed over him. The attention made him both pleased and sick to his stomach, even at that age. He’s never really liked that attention, as much as he pined for it. 

Even then, it wasn't really a bad injury. Not like this, not like the obvious broken bone (bones?) that he can clearly feel digging into the inside of his wing. 

He feels both too fuzzy-headed to know what's going on and hyperaware of everything; the broken pieces of bone, the rocky dirt digging into his knees through his torn pants, the throbbing wound on his leg, the blood matting into his feathers. How his stomach turns with nausea from both the amount of pain and the betrayal he feels. The fact he’ll never fly again, surely...

He wants to be held, and the worst part is that Dream seems to know that. 

"Hey, it's alright," the masked man says gently, and a pair of warm arms wrap around him. He has no energy to pull away, but he mentally rears back with horror. Why is he trying to hug him? _Oh god, is he going to break the other one?_ He’s not sure he could take it. "I know it hurts, but I had to do it. For your safety, y'know? I have to keep you safe."

_For your safety._

Tommy was told that a lot, growing up-- as his father and older brothers would snatch away weapons and potions and other dangerous things, or when he was pulled away from wandering too far, even after Philza— always so protective, to the point of building walls around their home— had left them and he was under his older brothers’ supervision. 

(He remembers Wilbur taking away a fancy, pretty knife he had found while messing around in his room, and saying exactly what Dream did. 

_"For your safety, y'know? I have to keep you safe.")_

Fingers prod at the base of his broken wing, and he _screams_ , thrashing in the arms holding him, nausea only quelled by the fear of what Dream would do to him if he got sick.

"Shh, shh," Dream soothes, hugging him around the waist with one arm and inspecting his wing with the other. "I need to see how bad it is. Sit _still_ , Tommy, jeez." 

He can’t form words. There’s nothing but primal horror and pain coursing through him. He can't escape, because he's stronger than him and he's touching his wings and he just broke one of them and he's trying to hug him and-- and--

_I’m never going to fly again because of this man._

Tommy crosses some line into hysteria, or _something_ , because he's suddenly sobbing like never before, not even like when he was alone for the first time after his exile or when Wilbur died or when he realized Philza had left them when he was ten or hell, even when he was abandoned the first time as a fucking five-year-old.

(Is this why Wilbur lost his mind? He doesn't blame him.)

He needs comfort and the only option he has is Dream, so he throws himself against the man's chest and clings to him, wailing into his shoulder like a baby, because it hurts and everything is wrong. 

"Oh, Tommy, it's okay." His hand stops messing with his broken wing, and he's brought carefully into his lap, a hand settling in his hair and stroking back the dirty, blonde strands. "Shhh, it's alright, you can cry on me. I've got you." 

And it doesn’t matter that Dream is the one who caused this pain, or that he’s not even a good replacement for his dad or his older brothers or his best friend or really anyone. He’s there, and he’s warm, and he’s hugging him, and that’s all he can really ask for. 

He clutches handfuls of his green jacket and sobs into his shoulder, choking on both the pain and his misery. 

The hand in his hair doesn’t cease, pulling through the tangles gently. His other hand settles on his back and his thumb rubs circles on him through his shirt. He rests his head against his own, and he murmurs meaningless comfort as he cries. 

“It’s okay, little bird. I’m not going anywhere.” The nickname makes him gag (no one calls him nicknames except Tubbo, and Wilbur when he’s feeling especially affectionate) but the reassurance feels good, in a fucked up sort of way. Because even though Dream is awful, even though he’s cruel, he’s really all Tommy has now. 

Dream kisses his forehead, and that’s _awful_ , but it feels good too. 

He isn’t sure how long it takes for him to calm down. He cries long enough that his throat hurts, and his mouth feels sore, and he’s sure he’s made a mess of Dream’s hoodie. There are both dried and still-wet tears on his cheeks, and his nose is all snotty. He feels gross, like a little kid who threw a fit because he didn’t get his way.

“I’m s-sorry,” Tommy hiccups, pulling away and trying to dry his own face. “I’m sorry, Dream, p-please don’t be mad at me…”

“No, no, hey, it’s alright.” Dream’s hands cup his face and he rubs his cheek with his thumb. “I’m not mad, little bird, promise.” 

He has his mask moved aside, and that feels significant, because Tommy’s never seen his face. His hood got knocked down at some point, and he has messy, light brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail, but he’s seen that before. 

The sun’s going down, so he can’t see that well, but he can see his bright-green eyes (one is slightly clouded-- blind?) and the freckles on his cheeks, and a stark pink-and-white scar across the middle of his face, starting on one cheekbone and stretching over to the opposite. When he smiles, he can see his sharp teeth, his slightly oversized fangs. 

He looks younger than he expected, and there’s a slight inhuman quality to his face. His skin is too smooth, his freckles too uniform, his eyes a shade too deep. 

The fact Tommy can see his face at all makes something a little like pride bloom in his chest, though. It’s warming, comforting, like a drink of hot tea on a cold day. Dream trusts him with his appearance, even after he ran away and cried on him and made a mess. 

Dream _trusts_ him.

“C’mon,” Dream says quietly, pressing a kiss between his brows (it makes him flinch, because Wilbur and Phil both used to do that, and it’s _so_ fucked up that he’s doing it now, but it feels good, safe, _familiar_ ) before getting up to his feet and helping Tommy up as well. “We’ll get you cleaned up, and find some dinner. How does that sound?” 

He nods. Everything’s fine-- Dream isn’t mad at him, his wing is going to be patched up, he’s going to be alright. Maybe he can get him to stay while he goes to bed. 

He doesn’t know if he can sing, but he might ask. 

That would be nice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUMMARY:  
> tommy impulsively attempts to fly away from dream and his exile, in the process getting wounded. (the cut on his leg mentioned in previous chapters) dream comes after him before he can actually get too far away, and they start walking back to logstedshire.  
> in an attempt to completely stop this from ever happening again, dream breaks one of tommy's wings. tommy promptly breaks down over this, spiraling to the point of basically losing his mind. (this takes place towards the end of everything, so this was essentially the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak)  
> he seeks comfort from dream, crying and in a lot of pain (of course) and dream is all too happy to provide it, while also beating him down subtly for trying to leave in the first place. 
> 
> this chapter is the MOST outright depressing lmao. sad hours lads. 
> 
> anyway! i plan to take a bit of a break from posting for a little maybe? dfkljfglkd i've posted all 6 of these chapters in just abt a week and i've definitely burnt myself out a little. so maybe there will be a significant gap between this one and the next? (maybe. i might ignore this goal for myself)
> 
> thank you very much for reading this far!!!! i love you very much, go drink some water!!!


	7. you know i've tried hard to love me too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope y'all came to this fic for uncomfortable family dinners and too much backstory and sadness! 
> 
> yes i said i was taking a break but my adhd has said that THIS fic is the only thing we can focus on so we're writing again! dw abt it im doin great
> 
> this is,,, not my best chapter, its kinda clunky, but it's the longest one, so that's pretty cool :-) it's got plot stuff, too! also some fluff kind of i think!

Getting used to living with Techno full-time is… weird. 

Mostly because Techno is so, so _quiet_. Quieter than ever before. (Well, kind of. There was a few months when he was a teenager where he was completely nonverbal, but that was after something happened with him and Dream, so Tommy’s not faulting him for that.) 

He’s only rarely talkative, and being isolated and alone seems to have made it even worse. He often doesn’t respond to Tommy rambling at him to fill the silence with more than nods or hums. 

It’s… unnerving, almost. It’s like he _can’t_ talk. Sometimes, the extended silences are punctuated by him sighing in frustration at himself as he tries to say something, but just can’t find the sounds for it. It worries him, a little.

(Only a little.)

He never makes Tommy get up when he does, but he has the weirdest sense that he’s up with the sun. He always looks exhausted, eyes lidded and shadowed with purple, often squinting even with his glasses on. 

Tommy wonders if he still has nightmares.

(This question is answered two and a half weeks into his stay, when he’s jolted from his own sleep to the sound of muffled crying. He lays, paralyzed with worry, underneath his blankets. 

He swallows anxiously. “Techno?” he calls.

The crying ceases immediately. “Yeah?” His voice is barely choked. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Fine, Toms. Go back to sleep.”

In the morning, Techno is still asleep when Tommy manages to drag himself out of bed. He doesn’t have the heart to wake him, curled up in the armchair with a blanket draped over him and a pillow held in his arms. His hair is loose and free to frame his face; it makes him look younger.

He ends up letting him sleep until noon. It’s well worth the scolding he gets; it’s the most awake he’s seen him the whole time he’s been here.) 

After Dream visits, after seeing how much it affected both of them, he starts to force himself out of bed more often. He hadn’t, for that first week, because he was too tired. Everything ached and even _breathing_ was trouble. 

But along with being very, _very_ bored, Tommy kind of feels like he owes his older brother… something, some kind of payment for making him deal with that and him and— y’know. Everything. 

He can’t do much. Standing up to do a lot of chores is too tiring, and hurts his broken ankle more than he’d like to admit. His wounds all still bother him, though the majority have healed pretty well. Anything too physically taxing leaves him wheezing, because he hasn’t gotten too much better in that respect. (At least the fever’s gone.) He can’t cook even when he’s not hurt.

So he cleans. Very small things, at first; he picks up the books Techno leaves on the table, he puts away a few things here and there. It just feels… right. It gives him something to do, so it’s good. 

Walking is painful, but he’s stable enough, and the more he walks, the less it hurts. He’s pretty sure walking on a week-and-a-half-since-broken ankle isn’t medically advised, but honestly, neither are ninety-nine percent of the things they do, so he’s working with that in mind. 

It takes Techno, who’s both oddly attentive and constantly in his own head, two days to notice him cleaning up, and that’s only because he sees him clearing the table after dinner. 

“I can get that, y’know,” he says from the sink, rinsing the pan he cooked in. “You don’t have to do all that walkin’.” 

“I want to,” he says, carrying over the dishes from the table. “Sitting around is really boring. Might as well do something… helpful.” He hands over the dishes, which are promptly rinsed and set aside to be washed later. 

A few moments of silence pass, with only the running water making a sound. 

Techno shuts off the tap and gives him a cautious smile. “Thank you.” 

He blinks, hesitantly returning the smile. “You’re welcome.” 

The exchange is very stiff, but it’s… genuine, at least. 

From there, Tommy does more. Chores are tiring, but he likes doing something with all his free time as he heals. He feels like antsy if he’s doing something, he’s always been like that. In other times, he’s sure he’d be adventuring or building or something to keep himself busy, but for now, chores are fine. 

He learns he actually really likes doing laundry. Washing stains out of clothes is oddly soothing, and folding helps steady his hands. And the soap Techno has for clothes smells really nice. (Like home.) 

“Lucky for you,” Techno says, teasing but not mean at all. “I _hate_ washin’ clothes. That can be your job.” 

So Tommy does the laundry and picks up things Techno forgets to put away (he has a bad habit of leaving his books out and not putting away his shoes) and does other little things like make sure the lanterns have enough oil and the table is set. 

It’s easy work. But it keeps him busy, keeps him from thinking too hard. It makes him feel… useful. Useful is good.

He can almost forget about what happened to him. He can pretend, sometimes, especially when he’s folding things and Techno is quietly reading nearby, that this is normal, that they’re back home again. Like Wilbur is just in the next room writing or practicing, like Phil’s in the kitchen cooking and humming lightly to himself as he does. It feels like they’re back at home.

(Does that home still exist? The comfortable little place Phil built for himself and his sons, oh so long ago? With walls high enough to protect them, even in his absence? 

Maybe they could go back.

He’d like to go back.) 

“You wanna help me with dinner?” Techno asks from the kitchen, rummaging through a chest. “Phil says he’s comin’ over.” 

Tommy glances back at him from where he’s hanging clothes to dry near the fire. (He’d do a lot for a real clothesline, but as often as it storms and freezes out here, he can work with this.) “Yeah, in a minute. Does he… visit a lot?” 

“As much as he can,” his older brother pulls something from the chest and sets it on the counter. “He can’t leave L’manberg _too_ often. They don’t know I’m out here, and I don’t think they’d like knowin’ he’s been here with me.” 

Tommy doesn’t know how to handle the hot resentment that burns in his stomach very suddenly at the words. Phil hadn’t visited him _once_ during his exile. Probably because he was too busy with Techno or something selfish for himself. 

He swallows thickly and places his last clothespin on the shoulder of a shirt. “Probably not,” he replies quietly. 

He’s not… _upset_ , anymore. Okay, _yes_ he’s upset, but he’s accepted the resentment that he always feels on some level towards Phil and Techno’s relationship. 

(He knew from a young age that Techno was the favorite, but it was okay, because back then he had Wilbur and Tubbo with him all the time. Now, he doesn’t know how he’ll handle all the time around the two of them.) 

They make dinner. Tommy still doesn’t have much of an appetite and can’t eat a lot, though he makes himself eat often enough, but it’s nice to cook (with help, of course— again, he can’t cook alone) and the task seems to make Techno relax even more. 

That’s another thing. Despite obviously being anxious— for a lot of reasons, likely— Techno seems so much more comfortable now than he has ever before. The tension in his shoulders, the posture of a warrior; it seems to melt away, now. It's weird.

Techno’s communicator beeps, and he glances at the message idly. (He barely ever uses the thing; it’s existence is more of a formality than anything else. Tommy is only a little jealous, because he broke his a long time ago.) 

He clicks his tongue. “He says he’s bringing Ghostbur. Great.” He sets the device down with a sigh and rubs his temples one-handed, the other prodding the meat in the pan. 

Tommy winces. “I dunno, I kinda missed him…” 

“I did too, but…” he hesitates. “I think it would be pretty easy for him to let it slip that you’re here. And you’re… still supposed to be wherever it was you were exiled to.” 

He fiddles with the knife he was using to cut potatoes. “I guess. He doesn’t have much of a filter…” he goes back to chopping. “Should I just hide the whole time?” It’s only half a joke. 

Techno snorts, elbowing him lightly. (He always touches him so gently. It would make him mad if he wasn’t so goddamn touch-starved.) “Nah. You’d freeze to death downstairs at this time of night. And Phil wants to see you, so I suppose we’ll just have to take our chances.” 

Tommy tries to frown, but it transforms into an involuntary smile at the idea of his dad actually _wanting_ to see him. (God, he has daddy issues.) “I guess so.” 

Within the hour, they have dinner ready on the stove, and Tommy stubbornly pretends he’s not picking at his nails from anxiety. Why did Techno have to mention how much Ghostbur could expose them? What a dick move, really. Now he’s nervous. 

“You’re gonna make your hands bleed,” Techno says, glancing at him with raised brows. He looks down, and sees that he’s right; he’s made his cuticle bleed. “What’s wrong?” 

He sticks his stinging index finger in his mouth, frowning. “You made me nervous,” he complains thickly. “Bitch.”

“It’s not my fault,” he replies, gently ruffling his hair. “Do you want me to put your hair up?” 

He nods enthusiastically, wanting to see what can be done with his usually-loose hair. (He doesn’t even realize how smoothly he distracted him from his anxiety.) Techno sits him down at the table and starts brushing out his hair. 

“You guys would never let me grow my hair out when we were younger,” Tommy muses, closing his eyes against the brush running through his hair, “why? I think I look great.” 

“Honestly? Wilbur didn’t want to help you keep up with it,” he works through a tangle gently. “I offered to do it, but y’know how he was about you.” 

He thinks about it for a minute, and sighs, slumping slightly. “Yeah, I know.” Thinking about Wilbur hurts; he keeps having nightmares about him. Either his death, or him being mad at him for whatever reason, or that awful fight they had, or… “Thank you.”

Techno brushes his hair back from his face and acknowledges him with a hum. “Do you want a ponytail or a braid?” 

“Oh, is it long enough for a braid? I want a braid.”

“Mmm, pretty much,” he sets the brush down and starts sectioning his hair. “I’m goin’ to believe that your enthusiasm for long hair came from all your time around me.” 

He scowls. “It absolutely did not come from you. This is an independent enthusiasm, completely unrelated to you and your fucking _three feet_ of hair.” 

He laughs, a bit louder than usual. “My hair isn’t that long yet. Soon enough it’ll be there.” He starts on braiding his hair, as carefully as he can. “Y’see, I haven’t gotten a haircut in, like, eight years.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he rolls his eyes, wincing as he pulls a little too hard. “Ouch. Why don’t you want to cut your hair?” “I don’t really know. I’ve never liked haircuts, and I think I look better with long hair. Phil never forced it, and neither did Wilbur.” He pauses, thoughtfully. “Well, he tried once.” 

“And how did that go?” 

“I bit him.” 

Tommy laughs and doesn’t even feel bad when he starts coughing. “Why can I-- ow my lungs-- why can I imagine you just chomping at him?” 

“Because I did it a lot,” Techno chuckles, finishing the small braid and securing it. “Like, a _lot_. He didn’t really get my boundaries when we were little, so I ended up having to scare him off.” 

“Maybe that’s why he was so scared of you,” he says, reaching up to touch the braid. “He was just scared of your teeth.” 

He grins down at him, baring all of his teeth mockingly. They are _intimidatingly_ sharp. “Maybe. Go take a look.”

More excited than he rightfully should be, Tommy hops up from the chair, gives Techno a beaming smile, and walks as quickly as he can to the bathroom. 

He hasn’t really… looked at himself in the mirror much, lately. He doesn’t strictly _avoid_ his own face, but he just doesn’t look at himself much. He doesn’t have a lot of self confidence, and he usually just makes sure he doesn’t look horrible. 

His hair is definitely better than it was before he got here. Somehow, Techno managed to untangle its messy, nearly matted knots without damaging it too much, and it looks… actually healthy. He touches the loose strands of his bangs, and they’re all soft and curly. He isn’t sure that his hair has ever looked this nice. 

All the cuts on his face have healed, leaving scars on his skin. He touches them warily. There’s even a scar on his lip from that split he had for months. (Dream… he thinks Dream might have punched him? He can’t remember a lot of what he did, but he thinks that’s right.) 

He’s gotten really skinny. He can feel his ribs when he even brushes his own chest with his palm, and his joints are very prominent. He’s always been lanky and a little on the thin side, but this… he looks like he’s been starving. (He kind of has been. Unintentionally, but still.)

Even in borrowed clothes that hang off his thin figure, though, he looks… nice. Or, he thinks he does, at least. 

He carefully stretches out his wings as much as the small room allows. He tried to clean them up some the other day, but since he hasn’t had any time to stretch them, it was just more painful/uncomfortable than anything. 

He briefly runs his fingers over the greasy feathers and winces. He’s been neglecting them because of the pain that moving the bound one involves. 

(He’s not very proud of how much he unraveled when Techno had to redo his bandages. He had physically thrown himself across the room to avoid him, and it was the first time in his stay that he was genuinely _angry_ at him. 

“Do you want to make it worse, Tommy?” Techno asked, jaw and shoulders both tense. “Just let me help you.”

He understood the anger afterwards, but in the moment, he was terrified, putting his arms over his face and hiding behind them.

They didn’t talk much that day.) 

He sighs, giving himself one more look in the mirror before leaving the bathroom. Techno’s standing near the window and messing with his hair, staring between the blinds. He looks like he’s barely in reality; he does that a lot, he always has. 

“Hey,” Tommy calls, tapping his arm as he stands next to him. “Are you paying attention to anything? Can I insult you without you noticing?” 

“Don’t be a brat,” Techno mumbles, still staring out the window. He chuckles and sticks his tongue out at his back, for the sheer childish joy of it. “Looks like it’s goin’ to storm. Where are they…?”

He wants to roll his eyes at the obvious concern. “Am I allowed to go outside? Just on the porch, for a minute?” He had managed to weasel his way into very brief trips outside for the last two days, usually no further than the porch steps. The cold air feels really good in his always-sore lungs, even if too long outside makes his breathing get rough again. 

He glances back at him, brows furrowing. “...for a minute, yeah. Take my cloak, I’m not lettin’ you freeze to death.” 

He gives a victorious laugh and grabs the blue garment from the wall next to the door, wrapping it around his shoulders as he steps outside. 

The sky is a stormy blue, full of heavy clouds and only the faintest glow of the setting sun. A brisk wind blows, pushing his bangs off of his face and freezing him down to the bones. It feels good. He kind of sees why Techno likes living out here. It’s weirdly… peaceful. 

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back towards the sky and the thick clouds, sighing. The wind feels nice on his face. 

For a moment, he feels completely calm. It’s been so long since he’s felt calm. (Moments like when Techno hugs him do not count, simply because they are embarrassing.)

“Tommy?” 

Oh, he knows that voice. He’s heard it’s living echo in his dreams for a while now.

Instinctively, he flinches, looking back down from the sky, only to meet Ghostbur’s empty white eyes. 

“Hi,” he says, waving a hand. It’s a little halfhearted; he’s still nervous about him ratting him out. 

The ghost of his older brother is standing on the porch steps, eyes wide with delight. His black hair glows in the mellow lantern-light, and the blue staining on his fingertips and chest looks bright. His ghostly, fluffy-edged wings are spread out wide. He’s grinning, showing off unsettlingly white teeth against his greyed skin. 

“You’re here!” he chirps, hopping up the last few steps, throwing his arms and wings around Tommy in a tight hug. He tries not to stumble; he’s not nearly as heavy as he was when he was alive, not even close, but he’s apparently substantial enough to knock a sickly teenager off balance. 

“Yeah,” he responds quietly, returning the hug. Ghostbur is so, so cold, even for this snowy biome. It’s disturbing, a constant reminder that he’s hugging a ghost, a specter, a spirit in the form of someone he loved… 

He’s making this way more depressing than it needs to be. 

“How did you get out here? Dream said you were still in Logstedshire-- I meant to come and see you again, but I got busy!” He gives him a tight squeeze around the shoulders and kisses his forehead. His lips are like ice. “Were you lonely?” 

Tommy nods, carefully, not knowing what information to expose. “Yeah, I was... lonely. Come inside, Techno said he thinks it’ll storm. Where’s Phil? Isn’t he supposed to be with you?” 

“He won’t be long,” Ghostbur shrugs, fiddling with his slightly oversized sleeves. “He left a little bit after me. I think he was talking to someone, I can’t remember. But he’ll be here soon!” 

They enter the house. Compared to outside, it’s almost uncomfortably warm, and Tommy removes his borrowed winter gear as fast as possible. 

“Hello, Technoblade!” Ghostbur says cheerfully, waving a hand at their brother, who’s taking food to the table with a kind of distracted concentration on his face. “How are you? You’re wearing your glasses again! Been writing or something?” 

Techno shrugs, setting a plate down with a mild clatter. “Nah, I’ve been cooking. Nice to see you, Ghostbur.” His voice carries an odd tone, and when he glances at Tommy, he thinks they’re feeling the same thing. It entirely seems to go over the ghost’s head, though.

“It’s nice to see you, too! Oh, the house looks really nice, much cleaner than last time. Have you two been having fun?” He floats a few inches off the floor as he rambles at them, waving his hands and his wings fluttering.

“We’re fine.” Techno’s getting quiet again, fidgeting with the silverware. He looks unhappy. Uncomfortable. Tommy isn’t sure if he gets it entirely, but he understands it. Ghostbur brings up… a lot of feelings. “What have you been doing?” 

“I’ve been trying to spend more time with Fundy,” he waves his hands a bit more enthusiastically. “It’s hard, and he doesn’t want to talk to me a lot, but he’s a good kid, and I apologized to him for whatever Alivebur did…” 

“That’s good, I’m glad…” he sets the silverware down and sits down at the table, running a hand through his hair. It’s down, and it’s impressively long. Tommy is a little tiny bit jealous of it.

A small knock comes from the door, and Phil steps into the house, looking particularly calm. When his eyes catch sight of his sons, he smiles and calls a greeting, taking off his coat and hat.

Tommy doesn’t know how to react to how much it warms him, that simple and very familiar smile. (Again: he has some serious daddy issues.) 

He tilts his head at Tommy in particular, his smile and eyes both widening at the sight of him on his feet and seemingly okay. 

He hurries across the room and stops in front of him. (Very close, so close, he has to pin down the urge to _run_.) He reaches in to take his hands, looking the tiniest bit overwhelmed. “I’m so glad you’re doing better than before,” he says, incredibly sincere. He sounds like he cares. 

(If he cared he would have stayed and helped Techno.) 

“Yeah,” Tommy says emptily. The warm feeling recedes, replaced by resentment. He doesn’t pull his hands away, though. “I’ve been feeling better for the last week or so.” Okay, that’s kind of a lie, and kind of underhanded to mention, but he feels justified in being a little bit petty. 

If the words shock or annoy him, he doesn’t show it, holding one hand a bit tighter and raising the other to gesture at his wing. “Is that feeling any better? It looked awful last time I was here.” 

He shrugs. “Not really. It’s… it doesn’t really hurt unless I try to stretch it out,” the restricted wing twitches, and he suppresses a flinch. He doesn’t get to be hurt about this, anymore; it was his fault, and he’s suffering for it. 

“Unfortunately, you probably _should_ be trying to stretch it out,” Phil frowns. His own wings rustle against his back. (Tommy was always jealous of his wings, so large and dark, shining silver in the sun. They’re so strong and striking. He’s always liked his own wings, but…) “I’ll take a look at it after dinner, if you want me to.” 

He fiddles with the too-big sleeve of his shirt. “Yeah, sure. Probably a good idea. Techno’s scared to even touch my wings, so it’s just kinda been left alone for a while.” 

“I’m not scared,” Techno calls. “For the record.” 

Phil chuckles, and Tommy manages to crack a smile. 

They all sit down for dinner together. It feels like a morbid mirror of how they’d all eat dinner together when he was younger; god, they even unconsciously sit in the same order as they used to. It feels… wrong and right at the same time. 

Tommy pokes at his food quietly, mostly pretending to eat when his family looks at him. Techno is very quiet as well, eating his dinner almost silently, only offering words when addressed. 

Phil and Ghostbur keep conversation going, filling the two of them in about things currently going on L’manberg. Tommy blocks most of it out; it just makes him sad to hear about all his former friends doing their own thing and having their own happy lives without him. 

“I would have come back sooner, but they’re getting… weird about letting people come and go,” Phil explains. He sounds a little exhausted. “They’re asking a lot of questions. Quackity, especially; he saw me leaving today and asked so many questions about where I was going… He was very interested.”

“I think Quackity is interested in dyin’,” Techno mutters, sticking a piece of meat in his mouth and chewing almost aggressively. “None of his business, what you’re doin’.”

Tommy sinks down in his chair, feeling small. He doesn’t know why it makes him upset. (He does know. Quackity is (was?) his friend, and while he knows, logically, that Techno is violent, the idea of him hurting one of his friends makes him upset. 

(Dabbing Tubbo’s burns with cloths wet by healing potion. Tired, mismatched eyes staring up at him.

“ _You said he wouldn’t hurt me_.”) 

Suddenly, he can’t eat. He feels shaky and he realizes he might be wheezing again, because his chest hurts. 

(“ _You said you wouldn’t hurt me_ ,” Dream’s voice is soft with hurt, touching where Tommy had scratched his arm.) 

That’s not-- no. That’s not related. He’s not like Techno. They’re different, they’re not the same-- he wouldn’t hurt his friends. 

His fingers fiddle with the sleeve of his shirt. It’s the one he wore the day Dream visited, and it has a faint discolored spot where he cut his arm. He has to resist the urge to scratch at himself again. 

They’re all still talking. Even Techno, now, is able to talk, melting into conversation with people he trusts. 

(Tommy isn’t sure if he trusts them anymore. They left him alone, they never came and helped him, or even offered him company. Ghostbur _barely_ counts; his company was more depressing than anything else.) 

(The sounds of their voices are beginning to give him a headache.) 

(He’s tired again.) 

He gets up from his chair. He’s shaking. 

“Are you alright, mate?” Phil asks, brow furrowing as he watches him stand.

He raises a hand to tug anxiously at his bangs, like Techno does. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t even really acknowledge the words. 

He turns and walks, shaking, to the bathroom. It’s the only room he feels safe escaping to; the loft (which he’s only recently been informed of) is Techno’s private space, and the basement is terrifying by association. 

He closes the door and locks it, sinking down to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. He unconsciously presses his hand against the cut on his shin, only to find the scar under his pants. He wants to dig his fingers into the old, bloody version of the slash and rip himself apart. 

Why can’t he just have a fucking meal with his family? Why does his horrible, fucked up brain decide to ruin everything for him? He was almost feeling _happy_ for a few minutes. 

And now he isn’t. He feels panicky and trapped and he just wishes he wasn’t here. 

“They didn’t even do anything to you,” he whispers to himself, pulling his own hair and undoing the braid that Techno so carefully put it in. “Not now. They just-- they were just talking. What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

They have done things to him, though. Wilbur lost his mind, he hurt him more than once in more than one way. Techno hurt his friends, he hurt _him_.

Phil left them when they needed him. He played favorites. Maybe they could have stayed a normal family, had that not happened. 

Tommy curls further into himself, burying his face in his knees.

-

The bathroom door slams closed, and Techno drops his head into his hand, groaning. “Fuck.” 

“What’s wrong?” Ghostbur asks, obviously confused and alarmed. “You look upset.” 

“He’s not gettin’ any better,” he mumbles, pushing his fingers into his hair and resisting the urge to pull it. “I’m not helpin’ him, he’s not gettin’ better.” 

“He’s definitely getting better,” Phil promises, resting his hand on his back. “I can tell. He’s obviously been through a lot, Techno, you can’t expect everything to get better this quickly.” He pauses, brows furrowing. “Has he told you what happened?”

He digs his claws into his scalp, just enough to hurt but not enough to make him actually bleed. “No,” he mutters. “I’ve got some guesses, but he hasn’t told me much. He doesn’t talk about whatever happened. He just… cries about it and then ignores it.” 

“Poor Tommy,” the ghost murmurs. “He seems really sad…” 

Techno sinks down against the table, pressing his face against his arm. He has _so_ many guesses. 

Tommy flinches at every touch, even at the gentlest things. Techno tries to touch him as little as possible, but even brushing against him makes him cringe away and go tense. 

(He hates how much he understands; wasn’t he like that, so long ago? He remembers flinching at touch for at least the first year he lived with Phil, and then occasionally as he got older. It’s actually only been in the last few years that he tamped down his startle response.) 

Tommy doesn’t eat enough. Even when offered food, he seems to hesitate in eating it. 

(He understands that, too.)

Tommy has nightmares that wake him in a panic, he’s covered in wounds and scars that imply a hell of a lot more than his voice could ever say, and he looks terrified whenever Techno raises his voice. He stays generally quiet, says he feels like he has to be useful, and apologizes for everything. 

He tries to help, but he can’t pry, because the few times he’s tried, Tommy just-- shuts down. He curls into himself and stares into space and often starts crying. 

(He understands that, more than he’d ever verbally admit.)

He talks in his sleep, and the few times Techno has listened in, he’s heard him mumbling for someone to get away from him, apologizing, and saying Dream’s name.

Something happened with Dream. Dream did something to him, though he isn’t sure what. It’s something _bad_ , though. 

(He thinks about the ruins. A knife cutting into his wrist, through his hair. 

Dream is a sadistic bastard, so he wouldn’t put it past him to hurt Tommy.) 

_Kill Dream_

_Get rid of him_

_Snap his neck break his mask_

_Blood for the blood god_

“I’m not helpin’ him,” Techno mumbles, sinking further against his own arm. 

“You’re doing your best,” Phil says gently, rubbing his back. “He just needs time. I’m sure things will get better once he’s not sick or hurt anymore…” 

He digs his claws in against his head again. The sharp pricks of pain feels good against his rising panic. It’s probably because Tommy is out of sight, he’s been constantly watching him for two weeks after all. And because the voices are calling for blood, louder than their usual.

He can’t keep burning himself out like this. He’s almost as worn-out as Tommy is, and he’s _not_ a hypothermic teenager covered in awful wounds, who’s obviously been mistreated. He hasn’t gotten good sleep this whole time, and especially not after Dream visited. He feels unsafe in his own home, constantly walking on eggshells.

(“Are you, really?” Dream asks, purposefully quiet. He can feel his smile and his eyes through the porcelain of his mask. “You’ve completely changed your ways? You’re not doing anything like before?” One hand drops from where it’s tucked into his pocket to run along the sheath of the knife at his side, fingering the handle with almost obscene tenderness.

“Is it really that unbelievable?” Techno replies, hesitating to speak any louder than him. His hands are in fists below his cloak. 

He can’t believe he let Dream come down here; Tommy is feet from them, losing his mind from anxiety. He knows, he can smell the faint scent of blood and he can almost hear his panicked breathing. 

He’s so close. Close enough to touch, to see the chips on his mask, to smell the scent of smoke and metal that clings to his green clothing.

“Knowing you? Yeah, it’s really unbelievable.” Somehow both casual and aggressive, Dream’s hand darts forward, and seizes his arm. His fingers shove up his sleeve, the buttons coming undone, until he can see the scars on his arm. 

His thumb presses in purposefully, over the scar from the altar. His face goes numb and he inhales, so sharp it hurts. 

“Remember the temple, Techno? That’s why I can’t believe you.” His thumb strokes the thin, raised scar and the bone of his wrist, almost intimate, _gentle_. His other hand still rests on his knife.

He wants to scream, but he only just chokes back a sob.

That night, after Tommy falls asleep, he sits on the floor next to the fire and considers burning away the scar.) 

“Phil?” He asks, voice coming out a little rough. “I need your help.” 

The hand rubbing his back pauses. “Oh,” he murmurs. “I guessed you would, but… I didn’t expect you would _ask_.”

His ears burn. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was entirely necessary.” 

“I know,” he begins rubbing his back again, trying to soothe him. “Do you want me to stay?” 

He sinks further against the table. “...yes.” 

Shame burns at the back of his throat like bile. He should be able to do this. He’s fucking _Technoblade_. He’s slain armies, destroyed countries, ruled a goddamn empire, and ruined lives, but he can’t figure out what happened to his sick little brother and help him get better. 

Phil raises his hand from his back and gently pulls him into a sitting position, pulling his hand from his hair. His claws are wet with a very small amount of blood, and a few drops sink into his hair. It feels sticky. 

“I’ll stay,” he says quietly, taking a napkin from the table to clean the blood from his fingers. “You did as much as you could, Techno. Let me help you.” 

Techno wants to hide again. 

“I don’t know what I can do for him,” his words are soft. “He won’t tell me anything, he just _cries_ , and I don’t know how to help him. I’m not-- Phil, I’m not good at this!” There’s an edge of hysteria, as his voice rises. “I can’t help him, because I don’t know _how_ , and it’s drivin’ me insane--” 

“Techno,” he interrupts, holding his hand tightly. The pressure is calming, but it’s not enough. “You’re doing _fine_ . You’ve kept him alive and he’s getting healthier. He’s up and walking around and not constantly panicking at the sight of another person. You’re helping in the only way you can. I don’t expect you to be able to help him with whatever emotional issues he has; that’s not what you’re good at, and that’s _fine_.” 

“He’s right,” Ghostbur says, gently. He rests a cool hand on his shoulder, burning cold through his shirt. It’s grounding. “I’m sure you’re doing well, Techno.”

His eyes feel hot. He slumps back in his chair. “It hurts, seeing him like this,” he mutters. “I feel… useless.” 

“I know,” Phil squeezes his hand, and when he glances over at him, he has a very curious frown on his face, glancing at the bathroom door with worry in his eyes. “I don’t think he would, but… has he said anything about his wing?”

Techno shakes his head. “No. I tried to ask him, but he just… he told me he fell.” 

The words were such an obvious lie. He’s not an expert at body language, but even a child would be able to tell Tommy was lying by the way his eyes widened and he stuttered through the sentence, fingers fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. It was a blatant lie. 

“When I took care of it, the first time… that isn’t a natural break. It can’t be. It’s too exact.” Phil’s voice wavers just slightly. His own wings fold very close to his back, feathers ruffling. “Someone _broke_ it.” 

_Dream!_

_Hurt Tommy really badly_

_He can’t fly because of him_

_Kill him_

_Get rid of him_

_Break him right back_

The voices are particularly loud this time, and he presses his hand against his temple in more annoyance than anything else. “Not the time,” he mutters very quickly, trying to placate them. 

His own anger is rising, though; the idea of Tommy having a broken wing is terrifying enough, but… someone deliberately breaking it? It makes his blood boil. His fingers curl into fists.

“Why would someone do that? That’s awful.” Ghostbur sounds like his old self for a moment, and it’s not at all helpful. His own wings flutter a little and then fold tightly against his back.

The bathroom door opens with a slight creak. Tommy peeks out. His face is flushed and his cheeks are shiny with tears. “I fell,” he says, voice trembling but not weak. “No one broke my wing, I fell out of a tree.” 

He walks back to the table, wiping his face dry on his sleeve. When he sits down, their father gently rests his hand on his back and brings him a little closer. He goes willingly.

(Techno ignores a surge of protectiveness when he flinches.)

“I… I really don’t think you’re telling the truth, about that,” Phil says, carefully putting an arm around Tommy. “I saw how your wing was broken. You don’t get that kind of break by falling out of a tree.”

He leans halfheartedly into the embrace, slumped and small. “I’m not lying,” he mutters. “I fell. I was climbing and I got scared, so I fell.” His voice wavers. “No one broke it.” 

“Was it Dream?” Ghostbur asks, almost innocent. 

Tommy’s eyes widen. Techno presses his thumbnail against his wrist to keep from making a sound. 

“What? No, no, of course it wasn’t,” Tommy waves his hand vaguely and avoids eye-contact. “He-- no, Dream didn’t hurt me, why would you…?”

“I don’t know,” the ghost shrugs. “I know he’s been with you a lot, so… doesn’t it make sense?” 

He sinks back against his chair, looking small. “Dream had nothing to do with it,” he whispers. “Nothing at all.” He stumbles back up to his feet, clutching the table. “I’m going back to bed.” 

“Tommy--” Phil tries, gently grabbing at his wrist to halt him. 

Even before he reacts, Techno realizes it’s a bad idea. 

He flinches away, hard, hands pulling in close to his chest, stepping far away from him. “Don’t,” his voice is hard, fearful. “I said I’m going to bed.”

The three of them stare at him as he stumbles to the bed, hiding himself underneath the blankets. He practically disappears below them.

Techno gets up to clean the table. 

Nobody talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lowkey hate this chapter, please hype me up /j i've been looking at it for too long i am so tired


	8. to rearrange the stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (vibrates at an inhuman frequency) _**RANBOO ARRIVES IN THIS ONE**_
> 
> this chapter kicked my ass! because i had to string a bit of✨plot✨ together and i am Bad At That! but it is worth it for The Boy and also some fluff! some more family time!!! some silly hours! this isn't quite as depressing as our usual fare <3
> 
> i hope you enjoy! it isn't the best, but the boy is here and i am excited!

Techno steadily sharpens a knife, eyes unfocused, sitting in front of the fireplace. 

His head is spinning, a little. And it aches. His thoughts are stuck on one single sentence. 

_“Dream had nothing to do with it.”_

Bullshit. Dream had something to do with it, he’s sure. He’s not sure how much, but he had _something_ to do with it.

God, poor Tommy. 

His fingers slip and he drags his bandaged palm against the whetstone. He winces; his wrist caught the edge, and it hurts. Not that he can really _feel_ it over the normal pain. Between constantly tending to Tommy, spending time outside in the middle of the night killing mobs (because it sates the voices, if only for the night) and cooking, they’re killing him. 

Everyone else is asleep. Phil took over his new bed in the loft, Tommy is in his own bed, and Ghostbur took the armchair. He doesn’t usually stay, but just as he guessed, it began to storm. So they’re all together.

(Again.) 

As he sleeps (do ghosts sleep?) he notices that despite being dead, he breathes. 

He goes back to sharpening the blade. He doesn’t use knives often-- he has to get too close to use them in a fight, and they’re not practical most of the time. But he likes how they look. 

(This one was from Wilbur, actually. It was a birthday present.) 

The scraping sound is soothing.

He fumbles with the knife again, his last two fingers feeling numb and useless, and it cuts the side of his finger. He curses under his breath as blood wells up, sinking into the bandages. It’s a minor sting, but it’s enough to make his eyes burn. He’s falling apart. 

“Are you okay?” A soft voice asks. 

He flinches and sets the knife down. “I’m fine,” he lies, not looking back at Ghostbur. “Go back to sleep.”

“No, I’m awake now.” Ghostbur yawns and comes over to sit next to him, crossing his legs and sitting on the floor. “What’re you doing?” 

Techno fiddles with the blade, not wanting to let himself be idle. “Sharpenin’ a knife.” _Trying to stay awake. Trying to calm down. Considering killing Dream_. 

The voices have been begging for him to do just that ever since he visited. They don’t seem to understand he’s trying not to commit violent atrocities anymore. 

_Blood for the blood god,_ they whisper softly. _Honor your commitment._

Some kind of commitment. It’s a pact written in his own blood, and barely even willingly.

“You look sad,” the ghost of his older brother says gently, shuffling in closer. He tries not to flinch. “Do you want some blue?” 

He gives a breathless laugh. “No. Thank you, though.” 

He nods, frowning deeply. “What’s wrong?” 

He tries to pick up the knife to continue sharpening it, but his hands are both numb in several places and he can’t grip it. His left is numb from the third finger down to his elbow. Fuck, he hates it when they get like this. “Nothin’. Just… thinkin’ about things.”

“Tommy?” Ghostbur guesses, watching him attempt to lift the knife. He isn’t sure if this expression is actually pitying, or if he’s just projecting old memories onto him. 

“Yeah. Mostly him.” He gives up on the knife and instead decides to comb his fingers through his hair. The strands feel strange against his numb skin. “...do you know what happened to him?” Its a long shot, but Ghostbur has to know _something_ , even if by accident… right? 

“I’m not sure,” he shrugs. “I know he was alone, but he seemed okay. Sad, but Tommy always seems a little sad.” He fiddles with his collar. “One day, I visited, and he seemed fine. I came back early the next day, and-- he was just sitting on the beach, crying, and he had blood all over his face… he wouldn’t tell me what happened, but he was all wet, too. He couldn’t talk, he just… coughed. I wrote it down, ‘cause it worried me.”

Techno swallows a wave of emotion, at the idea of Tommy crying and bloodied. Putting the details together, it sounds like he had almost drowned; he’s nearly done the same before.

God, he’s going to lose his mind at this rate. 

At those words, the voices begin to beg louder. Screaming that it was no _accident_ , that he hadn’t merely gotten in over his head. 

“Who else visited him?” He asks, carefully. 

The firelight dances and flashes off the side of his glasses, over Ghostbur’s semi-transparent figure. 

“I’m not sure… it was mostly me and Dream.” He frowns. “I don’t think I like Dream very much. Was he friends with Alivebur?” 

“No,” he says, a bit shortly. “Dream doesn’t really… like any of us.” An understatement.

“Ah,” he nods in agreement, light flickering through his body. “I didn’t think so. I wonder why he spent so much time with Tommy, then…” 

They sit quietly next to the fire, for a minute. Techno attempts, clumsily, to braid his hair, but his hands just don't have enough dexterity. Great… 

Ghostbur gently taps his arm. It still makes him flinch, mostly because he’s so cold. “Can I try to braid your hair?” he asks, voice bordering on innocent. “I remember doing it before, and I want to know if I’m able to now.”

He swallows. 

(When they were younger, Phil wore his hair long, just to his shoulders. He had taught both of them how to braid because of that. Well, he planned to only teach Techno, who even at the time had shoulder-length hair, but Wilbur couldn’t be left out back then. So they both learned. 

And as they got older, Wilbur helped him with his hair often. Especially on early mornings, when he had no energy to fix his hair before going out for the day. He would braid his hair while he sat at the kitchen table, the house quiet. 

He was one of very few people who got that honor.) 

“Yeah, go ahead.” Techno withdraws his mostly-limp hand from his hair and brushes it to his back, turning slightly so the ghost can reach it. 

He makes a small, happy sound, very cognizant of Tommy sleeping behind them, and he reaches in to gently take his hair into his hands. “Oh, your hair is really soft.” His voice is hushed as he runs his fingers through it, combing through small knots. 

He closes his eyes against the feeling, trying not to shudder. It isn’t… bad, not at all, but he still hasn’t gotten used to Ghostbur touching him. 

(He doesn’t think he ever will.)

He separates the strands of his hair, his motions just as practiced as they were forever ago, and begins braiding it, humming softly under his breath. The tune is vaguely familiar.

It feels surreal. When he’s only humming, his voice isn’t different at all; it’s like the old Wilbur is behind him, braiding his hair before going out for the day, to hunt or explore or build something.

His hands begin to shake, and his eyes get hot. It makes sense; Wilbur’s the only one who’s ever made him feel this vulnerable.

“Did I… when we were younger, did I ever put flowers into your braids?” Ghostbur asks, softly. “I can remember it, I think.” Techno swallows a wave of emotion. “Yeah…” his voice cracks, and he covers his mouth to resist crying. “Yeah, you did. We… we had this big patch of flowers, on the porch, and you would take the best ones and put them in my hair.” 

“I remember that house,” he says, finishing the braid. He doesn’t have anything to tie it off with, so he just lets it rest against his back. “We shared a room, didn’t we?” 

He nods. “For a long time, yeah. Neither of us could really sleep alone, so we figured it was better to share…” 

He rubs his shoulder idly, with his thumb. He wants to bite into his hand to keep from crying, but he’s stopped by the bandages. 

They don’t speak for a while after that. 

Techno falls asleep in the armchair just after dawn. Ghostbur sits next to him. 

—

Three days pass without incident. 

Phil stays, which is weird, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to that isn’t Techno; even with as many problems as they have between them, Tommy’s happy for more company. They don’t speak more about his exile, or any dangerous topic like that. Conversation is kept mostly light, and he’s grateful.

The three of them… kind of fall into a hesitant routine. Tommy still does his chores, uninterrupted, but Phil, without saying much about it, takes over a few of the things Techno usually does around the house. It’s probably a good thing, considering how stressed he’s seemed, but… it feels weird, how little they need to talk about things. 

How naturally Phil seems to understand how Techno _works_ , how they just seem to _get_ eachother. 

He’s not jealous. 

(He’s just… a little upset that they don’t have that, anymore. Because there was a time that Phil just _got_ him, too.)

Today, though, they’re alone again. Phil had gone out, apparently having thought of something he needed to get before the weather inevitably turned on them. He hadn’t said much about what, but he had given them both hugs before he left. 

(He’s not going to admit how happy that made him.)

“What are you doing?” Tommy asks, sitting up from the edge of his bed and peering curiously at Techno, who’s busily digging in a chest. The speed and relative franticness of the action make him worry, and he carefully edges closer to the end of the bed, in case he needs to hide. “Did you hear something again?” He isn’t sure he could do that again.

“No,” he replies, pulling clothes from the chest with mild triumph on his face. “Do you want to go outside today?” 

His eyes grow wide, and he holds his arms out to take the clothes. “Yes, I do!” He starts grinning, even if it kind of hurts his face (that cut on his cheek is… less healed than he thought; he slept on that side and now it’s super sore) and does halfhearted grabby hands. They land in his arms, gently tossed, and he hugs the bundle from pure joy. 

“Alright, then go get dressed. Ever since you got here, I’ve kinda been ignorin’ things I need to do.” He stands, brushing off his already-dressed self. “I figured today was the day I get back into things.” 

Tommy winces a little. It feels… very bad, to know that his older brother has been ignoring his own work for him. To know just how much he’s disrupted his life, by showing up here. 

He’s suddenly tempted to run away as soon as they’re outside, so Techno can go back to his peaceful life.

“As long as you’re warm and we don’t stay out too long, I figure it’ll be fine,” he’s still talking, unnoticing of Tommy’s internal self-hatred. “You’ve been goin’ out a bit anyway, so I’m sure you can handle a little more time out there. I know you’re bored, inside all the time…”

Despite his fear and self-doubt (why would he do this to Techno? Why would he mess everything up for him?) he’s very excited. He doesn’t even know what’s around here, just that it’s snowy and cold. He’s excited to see what’s been built out here. 

He takes the clothes and closets himself in the bathroom. He avoids the mirror as he changes; the sight of his own body is not something that he wants to ruin the day with. 

None of Techno’s clothes fit him, because unlike him, Techno actually has muscles. He’s not as bulky as people seem to assume, but he’s a thousand percent more built than him. (Is he jealous? Maybe a tiny bit.) 

He buttons up the shirt partway to keep it in place, slipping his wings carefully through the slits in the back. Techno hadn’t been happy about him having to do that before, but he seemed to understand the necessity. 

(“I need to get more shirts,” he muttered, which just made him laugh.) 

He actually managed to clean his wings up a bit more, late last night. No one was awake, and the only light came from the waning fire and the moon, but he managed to get some of the worst feathers out and made them look the tiniest bit more presentable. He doesn’t have the energy to spend on actually cleaning them up, but… maybe sometime soon. 

He doesn’t know why he cares. It’s not like he’ll be flying anytime soon; Phil told him as much when he reluctantly let his father inspect the break again.

(“If it heals properly…” Phil trailed off, carefully running his fingers over the crooked bone. “Maybe you’ll be able to fly again. But I’m not sure.” He let out a low sigh. 

Tommy isn’t proud of crying as much as he did. At least he hadn’t pushed about how it _happened_.)

He winces at the thought. It’s enough to bring tears to his eyes again. 

_Focus_ , he tells himself, wiping his eyes on his hands. God, he’s been crying so much lately. Gross. 

He buttons up his shirt the rest of the way and adjusts his pants so they mostly fit (Techno apparently has much bigger hips than him?) before giving himself a wary once-over in the mirror. He looks… fine. The clothes don’t fit, obviously, and the sight of the bandages still littering his body make him frown, but he looks presentable. 

He runs a hand through his hair and forces a smile at himself. 

When he wanders back out into the living area, Techno is sitting at the table, lacing up his boots. They’re the tall, black ones, the ones he hasn’t seen in a while. They’re kind of fancy, coming up to his knees, with shiny, ribbon-y laces and all these swirly golden details. They look sturdy and intimidating.

(He wore those boots at the festival.) 

Tommy shakes his head to dismiss the thought. “So, what shoes am I going to wear? Because I… don’t have any.” 

“I found a pair of mine that might fit,” he gestures without looking to a pair of old-looking but still serviceable leather boots. “I’ll get you another pair sometime.” 

He sits down in one of the other chairs, pulling on the boots and inspecting them carefully. “They fit fine.” They’re a little big, but he’s more than grateful enough not to complain. “So what’re we doing today, exactly?” 

“I just have a few things to check on,” Techno says, sweeping his hair to his back to pull it into a secure ponytail. His hands are wrapped tightly in bandages, he notices, from his wrists to between his fingers. His brows furrow; did he get hurt, somehow? “It won’t be long.” 

He nods, and then they’re off, after he’s offered a warm coat to wear. The snow is thick on the ground, crunching under his boots, and everything sparkles with frost. The air is crisp with the scent of spruce trees and the sharpness of cold. 

Tommy’s never liked the cold, he’s always been much happier in the summertime, but he thinks he might understand why Techno, who always runs so hot, has always loved the winter. Even now, after clearly living here for a while, he smiles at the cool wind on his face and tilts his head back slightly as he walks, enjoying the feeling. 

He realizes he hasn’t seen him smile like this in a long time. 

“So,” he glances around the land outside the house, catching sight of few structures. “What first?” 

Quiet as ever, Techno shows him around. He doesn’t ask him to do anything, maybe thinking it’ll be too much, but he’s fine with that. Just being _outside_ is so much better than being inside.

They check on the bee farm (and if Tommy pauses and stares at the insects for longer than he should, Techno doesn’t point it out) and the turtles and the modest (read: too much for any sane person) farm he has. It’s nice, seeing what he’s been doing out here. What he’d be doing if he wasn’t there. 

It hurts, a tiny bit, to see that he’s interrupting his life, but it’s equally nice. 

“Are you feelin’ okay?” Techno asks, as they’re walking away from the farm. He’s fiddling with the small, golden chains on the front of his cloak, making them click together. “Because I want to keep walkin’ around for a bit, but if you feel like you need to go back inside…” 

“No, I’m good,” Tommy assures, grinning. “I feel great, actually.” His ankle is a little sore, and he feels like he has to breathe especially deeply in this cold, but it’s still good. He feels good. Just being in the sunlight, pale as it is, feels nice. 

So they walk, for a bit. They don’t talk; they just walk over the snowy ground, listening to the crunch of snow and the sounds of birds and other harmless creatures. 

(Tommy sees them fly, and feels real envy.) 

He’s reminded loosely of when they would go hunting, when he was younger. Phil and Wilbur never approved— they thought it was too dangerous, letting a teenager take his little brother out hunting— but Techno had always found a way around them. 

Back then, he hated the silence. He’d ramble the whole trip, even though he knew he was scaring away game. He hated how quiet Techno was, as they stalked prey. He hated it. 

Now, though, he thinks he might love it. It’s soothing. It feels like something healing.

They make a wide loop around the area, always keeping the house in sight. Tommy tries to familiarize himself with the terrain, wanting to make sure he could get back if he needed to; he's not great with directions. 

On their way back to the house, he decides to start talking again. “Do you really like it out here?” He asks, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

He nods, kicking a snowy stone out of the way. “Yeah,” his voice is soft, almost a little distant. “It’s… really quiet. Feel like I can actually think out here.” He has that soft smile again, his head tilted to the side as he listens to the birds. 

“It is really quiet,” he agrees, walking a bit closer to him so he can gently knock their shoulders together. “I think I could live out here. Like, if this… hadn’t happened, I probably would’ve still liked it here, y’know?” 

He worries for a half-second that Techno is going to ask him what, exactly, happened, but he just smiles some more, left ear twitching and his earrings clicking together. “I’m just glad you’re not in a good enough mood to throw snowballs at me.” 

In retaliation, and in a stupid move considering his bare hands, Tommy leans down, gathers a handful of snow, and throws it directly at Techno’s head. 

He doesn’t even have a second to dodge, and the lump of snow shatters against his head. The flakes immediately begin to melt into his hair, dripping down his cheek. 

“Y’know what? I brought that one on myself. You get away with it, this time.” He’s grinning, and he wipes the water from his cheek with his sleeve. “Next time, I’m goin’ to shove your dumb face into the snow.” 

He grins right back. “Looking forward to it, bitch,” he laughs, sticking his hands back into his pockets to warm them. 

They’re getting closer to the house, now, approaching from the back. This is one of the first time since he got there that their conversation hasn’t felt weird, layered with discomfort and anxiety. It just feels… normal. Like nothing much has changed. 

He likes that feeling. He’s felt it a couple times recently, but it’s strongest right now. He’s… not happy, not yet, there’s too much lingering in his mind for him to be happy. He still hurts, and even this light amount of physical activity makes it hard to breathe. But he’s… content, maybe. He feels safe, because he’s fairly sure Techno wouldn’t let anyone hurt him here. It’d just be embarrassing. 

They round the corner of the house, and all feelings of contentment leave him at the sight of a tall, imposing figure near the porch. 

\---

Techno’s getting really bad about getting complacent. It happened before Tommy showed up, when the voices were quiet and he could spend all day doing nothing if he wanted to and he was alone but not lonely. 

And it was starting to happen again, despite how he and Tommy are both unravelling. He’s managing to keep the only two members of his family he still has alive close, and that’s better than anything he could hope for. 

Hell, he fell asleep with Phil stroking his hair last night, like he did when he was little and scared of everything. He actually slept at night, not in the early morning, and woke up in a decent mood. Things… aren’t looking up yet, but he didn’t feel as much like garbage as usual. 

He got some of his work out of the way, all while keeping an eye on Tommy and letting him get some fresh air. It’s a little amazing, how much he lights up in the sun, how excited he seems to be, outside. It makes a tiny part of him proud, that soft older brother part of him that he tried to lock away years ago. 

And then there’s a stranger outside his house, and any illusion of contentment is shattered. 

Techno doesn’t think before he crowds Tommy behind him, quietly whispering to stay back. He doesn’t think before drawing his sword and slashing at the figure, either. He doesn’t recognize them, not in the shade of the house, but it doesn’t matter; no one who shows up like that could be _good_. 

The stranger lets out an inhuman, oddly familiar kind of scream, and stumbles away before his sword can make contact. They pass into the sunlight, and he takes in their appearance, trying to place them. 

Black and white hair, topped by a gleaming crown. Equally unmatched skin. Small, purple-and-green particles floating around their form-- an Enderman of some kind, then? A… very proper-looking suit. A pair of white-gloved hands over their face as they try to hunch down in fear-- 

“Wait!” Tommy says, behind him, grabbing his arm. “Don’t-- uh, don’t attack him.” 

Techno’s brows furrow. “Do you know who he is?” 

The stranger peeks a bright-green eye out from behind his fingers. “...Tommy?” He asks, slightly muffled. Techno’s a bit surprised by how deep his voice is. 

“Ranboo?” Tommy’s eyes widen, and he steps in front of his brother with a grin growing on his face. 

“Oh, I knew it!” ‘Ranboo’ says, taking his hands off of his face and straightening up. He’s… incredibly tall, tall enough Techno has to look up to see his face. “I knew you were gone!” He grins, showing off a mouthful of sharp teeth. 

“What do you mean?” He asks, bouncing on his feet slightly as he looks up at his… friend? 

Techno observes Ranboo carefully. He has a diamond sword, hanging off his belt, but he hasn’t gone for it, not even when he came in swinging. He’s wearing a full suit in the tundra, which is kind of hilarious. He’s unarmored, and seems more concerned with avoiding eye contact (understandable) than fighting. He doesn’t seem… dangerous, despite his intimidating height and the particles floating around him. 

“Dream keeps saying you don’t want visitors, and you haven’t been answering my letters, so I-- well, I _might_ have followed Philza, because I figured he’d know something?” Techno’s brows raise and he cuts a sharp glare towards the house, because _why the fuck didn’t he notice he was being followed?!_ “I dunno, it seemed like a good plan…” Ranboo pulls at the cuffs of his gloves idly as he talks, grinning down at Tommy. “And I was right! You’re here!” 

Tommy looks absolutely elated, his usually-stiff wings fluttering a bit underneath his oversized coat. “I thought you stopped leaving me letters,” he says, shaking his head. “Did you?” 

“No way, I kept leaving them for a while,” he nods aggressively. “Well, I stopped a bit ago, but Dream said you were sick, so I thought that was why. But you’re out here! Why are you out here?” 

Techno starts putting some pieces together in his head. Dream apparently has been the one telling everyone how Tommy’s been doing, which means he controls the perception of him. While the kids talk, he fiddles with the fur collar of his cloak. He’s also either lying about Tommy being sick, or he’s been watching him and knows he’s sick, just not… where he should be. 

It’s not really a case of _if_ he’s been watching, but more a case of _when_ he’s been watching. Dream seems to know a lot more than he has any right to, sometimes.

That doesn’t bode well.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and clears his throat. “Tommy, mind introducin’ me to your friend before I kick him off my land?” 

Ranboo’s mismatched eyes widen and his ears droop. He waves a hesitant hand, leaning down a bit again, as if trying not to seem so goddamn tall. 

Tommy continues with his excited, idle bouncing. “Ranboo, this is Technoblade! I’m sure you know who he is, but I’ve been living with him for a while now,” He pauses for a moment, coughing into his arm and making Techno’s heart leap just a bit. “Techno, this is Ranboo. He’s my friend, and he’s nice… so please don’t kill him.” 

He rolls his eyes. “I’m retired, Tommy, c’mon.” He gives the kid a wary once-over, and then sighs. “So, you followed Phil all the way here? Did anyone follow _you_?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I would’ve noticed, I’m pretty sure.” He fiddles with his gloves again. “I don’t even think _he_ noticed. He went inside without looking around or anything.” 

Techno lets out a long sigh. If Phil was that distracted, he’s sure they’re going to have to talk about something later, and he’s just… not into that idea, personally. He doesn’t want to talk about anything that he’s likely to bring up. He was vague about what he was going to do today, and it makes him worry about what he did, how distracted he apparently was. 

He crosses his arms and leans his head back to stare at the sky. “Alright, we’re going inside.” 

The kids nod, and he leads them inside. He definitely notices when Ranboo has to lean significantly down as to not smack his head on the doorframe. It’s what he gets for being a giant. 

Phil is sitting in front of the fire, his wings loosely splayed out behind him, eyes closed as he apparently just rests. He looks amazingly content. 

“Were you completely unaware that a seven-foot-tall child followed you home,” Techno slips his cloak off and hangs it up. “or did you have a reason to let him follow you?”

He opens his eyes and blinks over at the three of them. His eyebrows furrow and he stares at Ranboo for a long moment. “...to be fair,” he says lightly, “he’s very sneaky for someone that tall.” 

The kid grins and waves. “I try my best.” 

Tommy starts laughing, wheezing into the crook of his elbow. Techno rolls his eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's a bit lighter than usual, simply because i am going to hurt everyone some more soon :-)
> 
> i'm trying not to push myself into perfectionism anymore, so i'm just posting chapters when they're done. if it's bad, take it up with my editor  
> (i don't have an editor)  
> (its just me)


	9. the past keeps pulling me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✨pain time✨
> 
> to keep it 100% with y'all, i've had a pretty garbage couple of days, so it kinda came out in this. this is,,, a bit more venty and rambling than usual, but it's still. Good Content. i think. and hey, even if it isn't, this motherfucker has THREE perspectives! 
> 
> this chapter,,, is very heavy. it's a turning point, and it unlocks New Angst for the Future!! its also the second longest lmaooo. 
> 
> title from razors edge by digital daggers! (a song suggested for this fic by deathsquiggles that i have been listening to religiously while writing; it fits so well)

Something clatters and breaks downstairs, and Phil sits up so quickly he knocks himself dizzy for a moment. Instinctively, he turns and observes the room through bleary eyes; everything seems fine in the loft. 

Techno’s actually still asleep across from him, face hidden by the loose strands of his hair. It’s evidence of just how much he’s been depriving himself of sleep, the fact that the noise didn’t wake him at all. He’s just breathing softly as he sleeps, a stuffed pig held against his chest. He looks young, like he’s still the same seven-year-old kid he took in all those years ago.

He pats his head gently as he passes and walks quietly to the ladder. Climbing down, he keeps himself alert, perhaps a little more so than usual; he really can’t believe he was so… out of it, that day. He could have led _anyone_ back home, and he was lucky the only person who noticed him was Ranboo, who he doesn’t think could ever be a threat. 

Or, well. Maybe he can believe how distracted he was. 

Anyone would be distracted after learning they're trapped.

He sighs as he gently steps towards the main room, lit only by the firelight. And in the low light, he can see his youngest son, next to a broken lantern.

He steps forward, hesitant to speak. Tommy’s sitting up against the edge of the bed, on the floor, whispering to himself as he clutches his head in his hands. There’s blood smeared on his cheek. 

“ _He’s_ not here, I’m okay, it’s-- it’s not _happening_ again, I’m safe…” he watches as he curls up into a small ball, knees to his chest and his arms tightly around his legs, uninjured wing wrapping around his side. (And oh, is that family resemblance heartbreaking.) 

“They won’t let anything happen to me, I’m safe, I’m _safe--_ ” he lets out a tiny whimper and begins _sobbing_ , hiding his face. 

And god, Phil knows he’s not a perfect father, he knows he hasn’t been there enough, he knows he abandoned his sons when they needed him, but he can at least fix this. He can at least help _now_. 

He crosses the room with quiet steps and kneels down next to Tommy, hand hovering above his shoulder, hesitant to touch after seeing him flinch so badly so many times before. 

(“He acts like we’re goin’ to _hit_ him,” Techno muttered earlier that night, sitting up on the edge of his bed and staring at the ladder as if he expects to have to go down it any second. 

“Like you used to,” Phil replied without thinking, and when he glanced over at him, the expression on his face was a scandalized horror. He isn’t sure if he feels bad for saying it.) 

“Tommy?” he asks, voice as soft as possible. 

He still flinches, sitting up with wide eyes, tears glimmering on his flushed cheeks, feathers ruffling. He chokes on a sob. He isn’t sure what he expects, but the apology isn’t it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, thick with tears. “I-I… I’m sorry.” 

He blinks, taken aback. “It’s alright,” he says, glancing at the broken lantern and the blood smeared on his cheek. “Did you break the lantern? That’s fine, we have plenty of those.”

He wipes his face on his arm, visibly trembling. “I… yeah, I broke it. I’m sorry, please don’t be mad…” His head ducks against his knees, avoiding eye contact. 

( _“He acts like we’re goin’ to_ hit _him.”_ )

(He can see that five-year-old kid with dirty, matted wings and scraped knees, holding a crude wooden sword, fear in his eyes.)

Phil swallows his heartbreak and reaches in to gently rest a hand on top of his head, fingers sinking into his soft hair. “Tommy, I’m not mad. Why are you up so late? Aren’t you tired?”

He hugs his legs and curls up tighter, as if trying to protect himself. “...I had a nightmare,” he admits quietly, still not looking up. “I got scared and-- uh, I knocked the lantern over ‘cause I thought…” he trails off, voice breaking. 

“That’s alright,” he says, moving in closer, hesitantly reaching in to wrap an arm around him. “C’mere.”

He expects the promise of comfort to draw him in, because Tommy has always craved affection, and done a lot to get it. Even very soon after they met, when he was still so small and had obviously been through a lot, he was clingy in every way. 

But now he flinches back, leaning back on the bed and staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. Like-- like-- 

Like he expects to be hurt. Just like _all_ of them had expected all those years ago. 

What broke his trust? 

Protective rage fills him at the thought of someone hurting him to this point. Of course, he knew _someone_ had done _something--_ the break in his wing, how desperate he seems to be about being useful, how quickly he follows orders… something happened, but he hadn’t seen such obvious signs until now. 

“Tommy,” Phil’s voice comes out a little more angry than he intends, “what happened to you?” 

He stares at him, tears welling along his eyelashes, hugging himself and looking so, so _small_. He opens his mouth, maybe to explain, but he just begins to cry again, the sound coming out almost strangled as he struggles to calm himself down. 

He brings him into his arms and holds him against his chest, wanting to fix this, wanting to know who did this to his kid so he can _get rid of them_. 

(It reminds him of too many past events. 

Wilbur coming home crying with a split lip because of a person who convinced him they loved him, Techno covered in blood and staring into space with a drugged horror, Tommy himself disappearing into the woods for a day and coming out wounded and scared out of his mind.) 

“You’re okay,” he promises, stroking back his hair. “You’re safe, I promise.” 

Tommy doesn’t ease into his embrace like he would in the past— in fact, he presses his hands against his chest and almost seems to consider pushing himself away. And oh, that hurts, because isn’t this what he’s supposed to do? Protect his kids, and when he can’t, fix whatever happens to them? 

“Do you want me to let go of you?” Phil asks, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. 

And he tries not to cry himself when he nods, squirming out of his embrace and curling up against the bed again. He keeps his hands to himself, despite all his parental instincts screaming to hold his broken son as close as possible, as if that can put him back together.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says, voice a little high. Panic registers in his eyes, reddened and shiny from crying. “I’m— I’m sorry, I just— I don’t want to be touched, I’m _sorry…_ ” He buries his face in his folded arms, his breathing ragged.

“It’s okay,” he says, ignoring the waver in his own voice. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s perfectly fine.” He clasps his hands on his lap. “What can I do to help you?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, hugging himself, obviously trying to keep himself calm. He can see his fingertips digging into the exposed flesh of his arm. 

(Did he develop that habit completely independently? Or did he get it from Techno?) 

“Tomorrow,” he starts, voice muffled, “can you help me clean up my wings?” 

He drags his eyes from his nails digging into his arm, to the disheveled feathers of his wings. They stick out in places, while in others they appear almost darkened with neglect and dirt. And that’s just what he can see in the dimness. He can’t imagine how uncomfortable it must be. 

“Of course I can,” he nods, feeling a well of emotion inside of him begin to overflow. The fact that Tommy even let them get this bad… it’s evidence that he’s unraveling, no matter how happy he’s seemed in normal conversation.

(He seemed so _happy_ while Ranboo was there. It was the first time in-- well, a long time-- that his smile looked genuine; while the enderman hybrid was speaking about something, his pets if he recalls correctly, Tommy’s eyes lit up with excitement and he didn’t seem to be able to stop grinning.) 

He’s hiding a lot, and oh god Phil just wishes he felt safe enough to _tell_ him. “Is there… anything else?” 

He peeks up from his arms. He’s struck by how familiar the tired blue eyes staring at him are; they look like his own, in the depths of their exhaustion if not the color. At least it makes sense for _him_ to carry that weariness; Tommy is only a child, he shouldn’t have to know that kind of tiredness. 

(But the world is hardly fair, and he knows this well.)

“Can you stay with me? I want to try and go back to sleep, but… I don’t want to be alone.” He hides his face again, muttering another apology like punctuation. 

He wordlessly nods, watching as he climbs into bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress and hesitates to touch him, but he stays.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles once more, face pressed against the pillow. “I… I didn’t mean to...” he yawns, before coughing into his arm. Every time he coughs, his heart lurches painfully. “I didn’t mean to freak out. I wish I could tell you why, b-but I…” His expression falls troubled and he curls up under the blankets, as if trying to take up as little space as possible.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” he tells him softly, touching his hand briefly before remembering himself. “I just want you to be… _happy_ , again.” 

A silence follows, with nothing but the howling of the wind outside and the crackling fire to populate the house. 

Tommy sighs deeply and turns on the pillow to look up at him, still so weary. “I haven’t been really _happy_ in a long time,” he admits, sounding a thousand years old. “It’s… I’m okay, I promise. I’m just… really tired.”

He swallows the sob that wants to leave him at how _resigned_ he sounds. Like he’s just accepted that he can’t be happy. That he isn’t allowed to be upset about it. 

(Wilbur’s cut fingertips from playing guitar without ceasing. Techno with a stab wound. Tommy’s perpetually scraped knees.) 

“I know I hurt you,” Phil murmurs, looking towards the darkened sky through the nearby kitchen window. “I’m… sorry, that I left.” 

He can feel the weight of his eyes on him, too tired to reproachful. “...I’m not really mad anymore,” he sighs. “I mean, I am, but… too much has happened. I would’ve left us, too.”

“It had nothing to do with any of you,” he says, and at least that’s honest. “I left because I wanted… I wanted _adventure_ again. I was impatient…” 

“You were selfish,” Techno’s voice is surprisingly loud in the quiet house, and as he approaches the bed, he can see an absurd, matching exhaustion under his eyes. Their family seems to only be held together by that weariness, now.

He sits down on Tommy’s other side and avoids eye-contact. “You alright, Toms?” 

He nods, sinking down into the blankets and staring up at Techno. “I had a nightmare.” 

“About Wil again, or…?” He tilts his head curiously, exhaustion in every movement. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour or two. 

“No, um… it was something else…” He hides his face in the pillow. Techno’s face creases with concern and he rests a hand on his shoulder. 

Phil notices how he still flinches, but it isn’t nearly as bad as before. (It makes sense. He’s always been more trusting of his older brothers.) 

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks, pausing to yawn into his hand. “Or is it one of those things you’re just gonna freak out about?” It’s a lazy joke, a _very_ Techno joke, and it makes both of them laugh, short and breathless.

“Yeah, it’s probably something I’ll just freak out about,” he admits, getting comfortable on the pillow. “You can go back to bed. Dad said he’ll stay.” 

He raises his brows and glances over, brows furrowing. He looks the tiniest bit betrayed, and it’s almost funny. “You sure? You both need sleep, too. And I’m fine.” 

“You look like you got punched in both eyes,” Tommy says flatly. “Go to bed.” 

Phil nods in agreement, keeping his words to himself and instead fixing Techno with intense eyes that practically scream _take care of yourself or I will make you_.

He frowns and slumps slightly, looking like a scolded child. “...an hour,” he mumbles. “I’ll lay down for an hour, and then I’m up again. That’s all you’re gettin’.” 

“Two hours,” Tommy argues sleepily. “Y’can’t fight on an hour of sleep, Techno. You told me that before.” 

His cheeks flush in the dim light and his frown turns into an outright scowl. “You’re lucky you’re like this, Tommy. Or I’d punch you for that.” 

“It wouldn’t even hurt, ‘m too strong,” he’s drifting off, the tension sinking from his limbs as he falls asleep. “A big man, you could say.” 

“Uh-huh, very big and strong,” Techno acknowledges, voice softening with amusement. “Go back to sleep.” 

“Y’go back to sleep,” he counters, before falling silent. 

More howling winds. Ice hits the glass of the windows with a low, almost ringing sound. Tommy’s breath rattles softly in his chest, and his exhales are light wheezes. Techno pulls his blankets up a little higher and tucks them around his shoulders, before brushing a hand through his messy bangs. 

“Do you really think I’m selfish, Techno?” Phil asks, without looking over. 

“I think you _were_ selfish,” he corrects quietly. “I don’t think you’re, like, an inherently selfish person or anythin’. The opposite, actually. You… took on a _lot_ of responsibility fairly young, takin’ us in like you did, and you just wanted to go back to what you knew.” He reaches over the bed to touch his arm, clawed fingers cool from the chilled air. “But leavin’ like that, leavin’ Wil to raise us, with Tommy so young and… uh, _everythin’_ about me…? _That_ was selfish. It was one of the few things Wil and I agreed on, y’know?” 

He runs a hand through his hair, feeling shame bubble in the pit of his stomach. It’s all true, because of course it is; Techno’s never been one to lie, and he especially wouldn’t about this. And it isn’t even malicious, his tone is soft and almost _caring_ , but firm in it’s meaning. 

“I regret leaving.” He’s never said it out loud, and it hangs heavy in the air. “I always wonder… if I hadn’t left, would any of this,” he gestures widely with his hands, as if encapsulating the entirety of their lives up to this point, “have happened? Would Wilbur be dead, would any of this have happened to Tommy, would you…” he trails off, dropping his head into his hands. “Would we still be a family?” 

“We’re still a family,” Techno says, absentmindedly petting back his little brother’s hair as he sleeps. “We all fucked up, Phil. Maybe not Tommy, but Wil and I… we’re not blameless, in what happened.” He chuckles. “But we’re still family. You’re not getting rid of us that easy. It’ll take more than what you’ve done to drive us away.”

Phil laughs, but it’s more a sigh than anything else. “I wouldn’t _want_ to get rid of you, anyway.” 

He gets up from the edge of the bed and stretches, back audibly popping. “Goodnight,” he says, voice gentle as he turns back towards the ladder. “Wake me up in an hour?” 

“Two hours,” he reminds him. 

“Yeah, whatever. Two hours, fine.” 

(He doesn’t wake either of them for the rest of the night, and well into the morning.)

\-- 

“If you knock over my bookshelf somehow, I am going to have to kick you out,” Techno warns, stirring his coffee with slightly-threatening metal-on-ceramic clicks. “Be careful with your wings.” 

“I’m being perfectly careful,” Tommy says, wincing as he tries to stretch out his injured wing. Even the good one hurts, because he hasn’t been taking care of them at all. He feels bad about it now. “Ow, ow, why does that hurt so bad,” he mutters to himself, wanting to draw the limb close to his back again but refusing to hurt himself further.

“Because it’s broken,” Techno reminds him with entirely too much glee, sipping from his coffee. “Why don’t you do this outside?” 

“It’s snowing,” he gestures one-handed at the window. The flurry outside looks intimidating. “I’m not going to break the other one by going outside like that. What do you take me for, an idiot?” 

He raises his brows, lips quirking into a smile. “Yes.” 

“Why--” He whines and resists the urge to stomp his foot, both out of a need to seem mature and because he doesn’t want to unbalance himself. “Philza! He’s being mean to me again!” 

“I am not,” Techno adds, voice louder yet much more calm. “Lies and slander. I should have you arrested and jailed for life.” 

“Aren’t you against prisons, Technoblade?” 

“Yeah. For everyone but you.” 

“Techno, stop threatening your brother with prison time, we all know he wouldn’t survive,” Phil says, badly restraining a laugh as he dries off his hands after doing the dishes. “Alright, that’s done. Do you still want my help with your wings?” 

Tommy nods, carefully drawing his wings close to his back again, wincing only a little. “Yeah, there’s a lot of places I can’t reach.” 

_Usually, I have help_ , he thinks, remembering the fussy little noise of amusement Tubbo would make when he saw crooked feathers. 

(“You look like a mess, y’know,” he would tease, straightening out the feathers with a gentle, unexpectedly-calloused hand. “There we go.”

Suddenly, his throat feels tight. Goddammit, he needs to stop reminiscing out of nowhere; it does little other than make him upset.)

It feels… a weird kind of familiar, to let Phil sit behind him and preen his wings, after all this time. 

He took over doing it himself when he was about ten, just after he left. Wilbur knew how to do it, but he didn't want him to do it, and Techno simply didn’t know how to do it, and to be honest, Tommy didn’t want to trust them with the task. 

So he did it all by himself for years, keeping them clean and neat all on his own, with infrequent help from Tubbo and exactly one instance of Niki helping. 

“It’s not too bad,” his father comments lightly, starting with his broken wing. His motions are practiced as he starts sorting out his disheveled feathers. “I’ve seen worse on myself, honestly.”

Tommy curls his fingers around the hem of his shirt. “Really? Your wings always look so nice.” His voice comes out a little too high. He isn’t sure why he feels so panicky, why it started the second Phil touched his wings. He’s being really gentle, probably because he’s working on the damaged one. 

“It takes work to make them look this good,” he replies with a light laugh. (None of them have talked about last night, though he gets the sense more was said after he fell asleep. It’s something about how Techno isn’t making eye contact, something about how hard Phil is trying to sound happy.) “They were a mess when I was younger. I didn’t pay attention to them at all, until they were bad enough I couldn’t fly. It was embarrassing.” 

He nods along, pretending to listen. A low buzz is building inside his skull, a dull panic filling his heavy limbs. He’s suddenly hyperaware of a lot of things. 

His ankle, bright with pain. The cut on his cheek. The little scrape on his hand from breaking the lantern. The flick of Techno’s tail out of the corner of his eye, as he pours another cup of coffee. The cool breeze that cuts through the wooden walls of the cabin. The crackle of the fire. 

Phil’s hands gently cleaning his wings, a soft hum coming from him as he works. It’s like when he was too little to do it himself, when he’d sit on the couch in their old living room and impatiently bounce in place as his father cleaned him up. 

“Sit still, Tommy,” he would say gently, holding him around the waist. 

In the present, he must be fidgeting or twitching or something, because he pats his shoulder and says the same, still gentle. 

(A strong arm wrapping around his middle and squeezing him close. Fingers touching the base of his broken wing, carding through the feathers, a voice speaking. 

“Sit _still_ , Tommy, jeez.”)

Panic fills him so abruptly he can’t even make a sound. He just stops moving, stops breathing, goes entirely still and stiff as if inactivity will save him. 

Because the hands touching his wings don’t belong to Philza, who for all his faults, Tommy trusts with his wings, at the very least. 

No, it’s Dream, it has to be Dream. Dream who ~~broke his wing with his bare hands and a ** _SNAP_**~~ scared him and made him fall out of that tree. Dream who threatened to cut his wings off completely if he didn’t _behave_.

He draws in a heavy breath and digs his nails into his thighs, through his pants. His hands are shaking. 

“Doing alright?” Phil asks gently, out of sight. Behind him. Touching his wings. Tommy feels his whole body twitch and it-- it _hurts_. “Tommy?” 

He swallows a thick mouthful of saliva, feeling nauseous and shaky. He’s not there anymore, he’s _safe_ , Dream can’t touch him anymore. 

“I—I’m okay,” he croaks out. He thinks he might be crying. “I’m fine.”

“I’m almost done with this one,” he says, straightening out the wing as best he can without hurting him. He barely feels it, his mind more focused on not throwing up from anxiety or completely falling apart on the floor, into a thousand razor-sharp shards. 

(Once, when he was thirteen or so, he knocked a plate off the counter in their old house, and it shattered all over the floor. 

The sound had scared all three of them so badly that they were all quiet, stiff, and still for a whole minute, before Wilbur unfroze and grabbed the broom. 

He wonders if Phil and Techno would freeze at the sound of him breaking.) 

Careful fingers slide over the break in his wing and he brings a hand up to cover his mouth, so he doesn’t scream like he’s being murdered.

“Well, it’s healing fine,” Phil muses. “You’ll have to stretch it more, I think. It’ll hurt, but it’ll help, too. Broken wings can heal if you take care of them.”

He nods on autopilot, sinking teeth into the inside of his cheek as to not panic. 

_(Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic. Dream isn’t here. You’re safe. Phil won’t hurt you. He’d never hurt you like that.)_

_(Would he?)_

His breathing is worse than usual, heavy, wet, rattling inhales, strained exhales. He feels like he’s suffocating, like he’s swallowing water and choking on salt. 

(Strong hands tangled in his hair, pulling, shoving his head under the gentle waves. Sand and salt in his eyes, stinging, painful. Screaming with his mouth full of water.)

“Tommy?” That’s… fuck, he can’t recognize that voice. Phil’s behind him, but that voice came from his side. Uh. Who else is there? 

Dream? 

No, it has to be Techno, this is his house after all. Right? Right. 

_(Get it together, TommyInnit. You’re better than this.)_

Techno sits in front of him with his brow furrowed deeply, his hands hovering near him but not quite touching. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

He wants to curl up into a ball and hide forever. He wants everything to start over. He wants to lay down and sleep some more, even though it’s barely eleven in the morning. He’s-- god he can’t breathe-- 

The hands are off his wings. He can tell, even while being consumed by panic, that they’re lighter, much less itchy and uncomfortable. They feel cleaner, just like this. 

“Can I touch you?” Techno asks, hands just above his shoulders. 

His wings curl close to his body, even the broken one pulling in close to hide his form, like he’s a scared little kid again. 

(Isn’t he? Isn’t he just a scared five-year-old at heart, even now? A stupid, _useless_ child...) 

(God, he’s spiraling.) 

“Don’t touch me,” he whispers. “Don’t.” 

“Okay,” Techno’s practically whispering, his voice is so quiet. “Anythin’ I can do for you?” 

“Uh…” He pulls his legs up to hug them. “Can I have a blanket?” 

He hums quietly, and within seconds there’s a blanket draped around him. He makes sure not to even accidentally touch him, which is nice. He pulls the blanket more securely around himself, trying to hide any bare skin. There’s nothing to hurt if he’s all hidden, right? 

He feels twitchy and overwhelmed. The panic is still clawing at his insides, and he can’t breathe properly. His lungs feel like they’re still full of stinging saltwater.

(Dream was trying to _drown_ him like that, he realizes now. In the moment he had been so confused that he could do nothing but cry and scream, but looking back-- looking _back_ \--)

Time passes like that, for a little while. With the three of them sitting together, completely quiet save for Tommy’s labored breathing. No one moves for a while. 

He finally forces his body to realize he’s not in any danger, measuring his breaths to be slower and more even, though he still feels like he’s choking-- drowning-- and he’s still trembling. Not as bad as before, but still-- there. 

“Y’know, we need to talk about whatever that was.” Techno says, blunt as ever. “What happened?” 

_Where do I begin?_ he thinks bitterly. 

Phil clears his throat. Tommy hasn’t looked back at him, but he thinks he might be crying, which feels wrong to think about. “Did I… did I make you panic like that, Tommy?” It’s not accusatory or pitying, just an honest question. 

He hugs his knees, trying to press his drowning lungs back into their normal state. “...kind of,” he murmurs. He swallows thickly again. “When you told me to ‘ _sit still_ ’,” the words taste bitter and disgusting, and it makes him bad because it’s such an innocuous phrase, “it-- uh, reminded me of something. Something _bad_.” 

“Do you want to tell us what it was?” Phil presses, voice controlled. But Tommy’s gotten good with tones, and he can almost feel his repressed anger. 

He shuffles closer to Techno.

 _Can_ he tell them? Can he trust them? 

He can trust them, right? They’ve all been apart for a while, but they’re still family. Techno’s still the same big brother he’s always been, and Phil is still his father, for better or worse. They won’t-- they won’t blame him for this, not like _he_ does, right? Not like-- not like _Dream_ did, either. 

_Manipulative victim-blaming son of a bitch_ , a venomous and not-insignificant part of his brain screams. It hurts a little.

“I didn’t break my wing falling out of a tree,” he starts meekly. “I, uhm. I tried to run away, from where I was exiled. Dream… Dream came around, sometimes, to keep me company. And he was mad about something, and I got kind of… scared of him, s-so I tried to fly away.” 

He stares at the wooden floor with a blank gaze, not wanting to see their expressions. His every word feels charged, like the air is crackling with electricity. 

“I didn’t go far. I… I realized I didn’t want to leave, ‘cause Dream’s really the only friend I’ve got left,” his own voice trails off. “So I came back, and we were walking and talking, and then he-- he--” 

The words get stuck and he has to force himself to take deep breaths so he doesn’t go off the deep end. “Uh. He-- he grabbed my wing, and he… um, he…” His hands are suddenly in his hair, curled in the blonde strands. It’s due for a wash; it’s somewhat greasy. “He _broke_ it.” 

Silence reigns for a solid five seconds, before Phil actually growls, the sound low and almost animalistic, and gets up from the floor. His own wings are slightly extended from his back, all glossy grey and white and silver, his posture defensive, feathers on end.

“Where are you goin’?” Techno asks, still sitting in front of Tommy. He sees him lean back, only seeing him from legs to chin. 

Something makes a whispering sound as it’s drawn. A sword? “He _broke_ your wing, Tommy? How?” 

He blinks a few times. “With his hands…” God, that detail has haunted him ever since it happened; Dream used his _hands_ to snap his bones. So much more personal than using some kind of tool, so much more morbidly _intimate_.

“I’m going to _kill him_ ,” Phil’s voice has taken on a steely edge that Tommy’s rarely heard before. It chills him to his bones. “Repeatedly, if I can get away with it.” 

“Too windy out there, to do anything now,” Techno warns, his attention mostly on Tommy. He finally glances up and sees the intense sadness and rage in his older brother’s eyes, the kind of sadness that leaves him looking worn-out and the kind of rage that would usually lead to him being completely on board with Phil’s murder plot. 

But instead of getting up and assisting in the carnage, he hesitantly holds out an arm. “You don’t have to hug me, but… if you want it, I want to give you one.” His smile is weak and sad, crooked.

Tommy shuffles a little closer, wrapping his arms around his middle and resting his head on his shoulder. “I… it was my _fault_ ,” he says, voice small. “He-- he told me not to fly, and I did exactly the opposite. I tried to run away f-from him, even though I was doing pretty good before that. He… he did what he had to, to keep me _safe_.” That’s what he said, anyway, for those few days before he ran away for good. 

(God, if Dream finds him here, he’s going to have to kiss his wings goodbye altogether. Because he doesn’t doubt the masked man will take his axe to them, family be damned.) 

More silence, as suffocating as the pain from his wing was, as suffocating as drowning. 

“Tommy…” Techno starts, hugging him closer, protectively resting a hand on the back of his head. “There’s not a _single_ way that could be your fault.” 

He sinks further against him, trying to hide in the sweater he wears. It’s soft, a light blue color, and big even on him. He fixes his eyes on the knit of it. “He told me what would happen if I tried to fly,” he whispers. “He said I’d just be in trouble… but I broke the rules a-anyway, so-- so it’s my fault…” he trails off, holding handfuls of Techno’s sweater in loose fists. He’s shaking, again. Maybe he never stopped. 

“Not letting you fly was fucking _inhumane_ of him,” Phil says, obviously seething. He isn’t sure of the last time he saw him this angry, this _protective_ over someone who isn’t Techno. (Against himself, he feels proud.) “Dangerous on _every_ level. Your physical health, your mental health-- everything. If he wanted you to be safe and happy, he would’ve let you fly.” Tommy watches as he tightens his grip around the netherite sword’s handle, as if desperately wanting to sink it into someone. “It wasn’t your fault. I would have tried to run away, too.” 

That breaks him, and the tears begin anew. He lets out one, hiccupped sob, before burying his face in Techno’s shoulder to muffle himself. 

It’s like when his wing was broken all over again-- hysteria builds in him until he’s wailing, clinging desperately to a larger, more solid body, wanting comfort and safety. 

And unlike Dream, who’s comfort made his skin crawl and who’s safety was a trick, Techno gives him something real. 

He pulls him in closer, until he’s curled up, long limbs and all, on his lap. He strokes his fingers through his hair and shushes him quietly, pressing kisses to his temple.

He wonders why he isn’t talking, until he feels his tears dripping down onto him as he holds him. It’s much more subtle than his own breakdown, but he’s crying too, broad shoulders trembling as he holds him.

And within seconds, Phil is with them, arms wrapping around them both, large wings draping around them like blankets, keeping them both safe from the world. Like he had done years before, with one more person involved...

He doesn’t even care that crying like this hurts, or that curling up on Techno’s lap like this is uncomfortable because he’s so tall, or that he can’t seem to breathe. 

Somehow, in a paradoxical, wonderful way, he feels safe. 

-

The voices started screaming when Tommy began to panic, and they only get worse as he tells them what happened. 

They’re usually a bit more coherent-- with actual demands and somewhat clever wording, on occasion-- but now, they’re demanding in very simple terms. 

_Kill Dream, kill Dream, kill Dream_ _  
_ _Protect Tommy, protect Tommy, protect Tommy_

Techno is very sure it disappoints them when he starts crying himself, holding his little brother in his arms, his own mind replaying his confession over and over and over again.

 _“I didn’t break my wing falling out of tree... I tried to run away... Dream came around... I got kind of… scared of him, so I tried to fly away...  
_ _Dream’s really the only friend I’ve got left... he grabbed my wing... he broke it... with his hands...  
_ _I… it was my fault... he told me not to fly... He did what he had to, to keep me safe..._  
He told me what would happen if I tried to fly... I broke the rules a-anyway, so it’s my fault…”

 _Fuck_ his vow of nonviolence, his retirement, the way he was softening, all of it. He’s going to find Dream and break every bone in his body, slowly, _methodically_ , so he can feel what he did to Tommy roughly two hundred times over. And then he’ll kill him, as many times as it takes for it to _stick_. 

For now, though, he holds his little brother in his arms, shushing his wails of pain/panic, and lets himself cry some too. 

God, he can’t _imagine_ what else Dream did to him, if this is the worst. Were all his wounds from him? Did he make sure he didn’t have enough to eat, so he would be weak? Did he punish him for simple things like not complying to orders fast enough? How much did he hurt him, control him, _break_ him?

**_KILL DREAM._ **

_I will_ , he promises internally, not caring if it curses him further to acquiesce to the demands. _His blood will be all yours. As many times as it takes._

When Phil brings them both into his arms, his wings, he crumbles a little further. The only reason he hasn’t entirely broken down is because it’s Tommy’s turn, what he’s feeling is so much _worse_. 

Even if this-- _all_ of this, but especially Tommy’s sharp wails of despair-- is digging a hole into his soul, slowly making him weaker than he’s ever been. Fuck, he wishes he could have saved him from this. He wishes he had been a better brother throughout their entire life, not just this portion of it. Not just this godforsaken server, but their whole lives, from the day he was brought into their home. 

He’s a sorry excuse for a protector, and it’s evident in the crying, broken teenager in his arms. He let someone he knows to be dangerous hurt him, and now they’re all suffering for it. 

(He’s ignoring the fact that he didn’t _know_ , really, until recently. He _should_ have known, as soon as he heard about this place, that nothing good could come of it.)

He raises his head only to try and clear his eyes on his sleeve, and meets Phil’s gaze. His own guilt, heartbreak, _shame_ is reflected in the clear blue-green of his gaze, a unique suffering. 

He presses soft kisses into Tommy’s hair, tears dripping down his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, holding him tighter and feeling his heart break into shards of glass when he lets out a choked whine. “I’m so sorry…” 

“It’s not your fault,” Phil murmurs, one hand resting on Tommy’s back and the other finding it’s way into Techno’s hair, around the back of his neck, grounding him to reality. “Neither of you are at fault. I’m sorry that I didn’t protect you.” 

Techno has to force himself not to shatter worse than his own heart at the words, holding himself together with the promise of vengeance and a consuming need to help Tommy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important side note: we hit over 1000 kudos between last chapter and this one!!! pog!!! thank you all so much for supporting my brainrot hyperfocus fanfic <3 
> 
> i hope you enjoy!


	10. draw blood, taste water / and drink it 'til there's no more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (vibrates) IM SO EXCITED FOR THIS CHAPTER !!!!
> 
> ahem. okay. so. this chapter has been the most fun to work on (was it because i got to torture techno?? maybe...) and i had the best time. so much good stuff. 
> 
> WARNING, though, that it's fairly graphic! i've updated the tags and considered upping the rating, because,,, it's. uh. really violent. there's some graphic descriptions of injuries, dream is there being the worst, there's literally a planned execution, etc. nobody is having a good time. 
> 
> a bit of timeline clarity: this chapter takes place about a week-ish after the last one! so things have happened off screen, but nothing major :-)
> 
> this is also set up the way it is on purpose! (i'm totally just not bad at writing everything in one linear timeline!)
> 
> i wonder how many people are going to yell at me for villain tubbo. im sorry he's just _really_ fun to write going off the rails 
> 
> anyway, please enjoy a good happy chapter where (technoblade voice) Nothing Goes Wrong :-)
> 
> title from lukewarm by penelope scott (big snow au techno vibes)

Techno has to give credit where credit is due; they managed to get the jump on him. 

The day started very calmly. He had woken up in an absolutely neutral mood, not feeling much of anything, which is a blessing after weeks of nightmares. He didn’t sleep enough, but it’s fine. 

He gets up and dresses himself warmly, mindful of Phil sleeping deeply across the room. It’s just after dawn, and the world is completely quiet. Everything is muffled by the lightly falling snow outside. 

He decides, regrettably, that today is probably a braces day. He’s been doing too much with his hands. It’s not as bad as in his fighting days, when he wore the leather braces all the time, but it’s close. 

He slips his hands into the familiar braces and tightens them appropriately. They hug his hands like old friends. He hates them, hates that he needs them, but they _help_. 

He drops down from the loft quietly. Tommy is asleep, as he always is this early unless he has a nightmare. His bed is a proper nest right now, layers of blankets and such practically obscuring his body. All he can really see of him is his hair and his wings, both very fluffy. His breath rattles only slightly as he sleeps.

It’s very cute; it's the exact same way he slept when he was little. His tail flicks with affectionate delight he’d never admit to if it wasn’t so early.

Techno builds up the fire a little more, wanting to keep the boy warm. He puts his hair up quickly to keep it out of the way, and digs himself out something to eat. Hmm, he’s feeling like an apple and a glass of milk this morning. It’s a very light breakfast, admittedly, but he isn’t close to hungry. 

After a moment's consideration, he starts some coffee and resolves to have some when he comes back in from tending to the animals. 

He scribbles out a note, just in case either of them wakes up. He even puts a flourish on his name, for the hell of it. 

The neutral mood is becoming a good one. 

He sets the note on the counter, gently runs his fingers through the kids hair, and grabs his cloak and sword. 

The sun is rising, making the sky brighten. He secures the cloak around his shoulders, his sword at his side. 

He feeds Carl, the two of them in a companionable quiet as he does. He rubs his ears and pats his flank before he leaves. (He needs to take him out some more. He’s been pretty housebound as of late.) 

The bees are fine, buzzing happily in their containment. Their noise is comforting in the stillness, before the birds have even begun to chirp. The turtles are equally fine. 

The farm will have to wait, either until Phil wants to help or until his hands are better, whatever comes first. 

He breathes in the cool morning air, stretching in the slightly-warming sunlight, and decides to go have his coffee. He feels very... calm. 

Sure, he’s still stressed and worried, he always is, but in the moment, he’s calm. No voices, no anxiety, no sadness. Just him and the creaking of the trees and the first chirps of birds and—

— _the telltale sound of a crossbow loading_. 

Fine-tuned instinct sparks through him, and his hands wrap around the hilt of his sword. He draws it, the netherite dragging roughly against the leather scabbard, and holds it out carefully. 

His ears perk, trying to figure out where the sound came from. Away from the house, in the western bank of trees... he can smell something, too. Something familiar. His sense of smell isn’t too fantastic, but it’s keener than a human, and he knows what this is, he just— can’t put a finger on it... 

He creeps towards the trees. His hands protest the tight grip he has on the hilt, but he couldn’t let go if he tried. 

The voices are back, full of concern. 

_Dangerous!  
_ _Coming for you!  
_ _Bad plans!  
_ _Butchers!  
_ _Potion!  
_ _Save Tommy!_

They’re all talking over each other, mostly single-words and panic, but he gets the gist. Someone is there to hurt him, and his little brother is in danger too. 

Do they know he’s there? No, they’d use him as leverage if they did. So as long as he gets to them first... 

“Who’s there?” He calls, low and dangerous, as he steps into the bank of trees. His tail whips, fur on end.

He realizes when he hears glass shatter above his head that he made a _mistake_. Maybe his instincts aren’t as keen as he thought. Maybe retirement and family and the odd, soft pieces of his heart growing larger did dull him a little.

But a potion showers over him, half liquid and half mist, being drawn into him through a gasp and subsequent choking for air on the too-sweet flavor. 

His hands go numb first, fingers unclenching from around his sword. It falls to the slightly-less-snowy ground. 

His head swims with sudden lightness, like he hasn’t eaten in days and tried to stand. His temples throb and his vision briefly blurs, despite his glasses. His stomach feels both empty and full of nausea. His limbs feel heavy and leaden.

That’s what the smell was. A goddamn weakness potion. A pretty strong one, too, to be able to affect him.

“Who’s there,” he asks again, voice coming out thick. 

A familiar-ish figure with black hair swept under a beanie and a pair of shining wings steps out from behind a thick birch, grinning maliciously, an axe in hand. 

Techno blinks at him until he can recognize the face. 

Quackity. Behind him, Tubbo follows, horns gleaming slightly in the low light of the dawn. And then Fundy, orange fur a bright contrast to all the white. And… Ranboo, following them uncertainly, not seeming to know what to do with the weapon he’s holding.

He was fucking _ambushed_ on his own property. It’s almost funny.

_(How did they find me? How? No one knows other than Phil and Ghostbur, and neither of them would tell anyone. Phil hasn’t even been there in at least two weeks. Ghostbur has probably forgotten the way, honestly._

_Who else knows where I am ? Did Ranboo tell them? Is that why he looks so uncertain? Did the kid backstab me, exactly like I thought he would? God I shouldn’t have let him visit the last few times, fuck, I’m so stupid--)_

“Well, fancy seeing you here, Technoblade.” Tubbo says, just on the edge of being polite. He has a crossbow in hand, and he’s smiling pleasantly. 

“What are you doin’ here?” He asks, struggling to even get simple words out. His mouth feels like it’s full of honey, thick and sweet. “Didn’t know L’manberg had extended this far out.” 

Quackity laughs, the usually-irritating sound somehow upsetting. Techno is very aware of the fact that he’s unarmored, while they’re in full netherite. 

Why would he be wearing armor? He just went out to check on his animals and crops. 

“We’re here to bring you to justice,” Quackity explains, expression gleeful. 

He rolls his eyes. “Really. You came all the way out here to drag me into a trial or somethin’? Seems like a waste of time.” 

“Oh, it’s not going to be a trial,” Tubbo says, still completely friendly. “It’s an _execution_ , Technoblade.” 

His tongue feels numb. “An execution,” he echoes, frowning. “Any way I can opt out of that? I’m a busy man.” 

The crossbow nudges at his jaw and brings his somewhat-lolling head forward, so he can stare down into Tubbo’s coolly amused eyes, horizontal pupils and all. (He’s reminded of someone he doesn’t want to think about.) 

“Not a chance,” he says, voice soft and almost sweet. When he grins, the scar across his face stretches. “Now,” he directs his order to his lackeys. 

Before Techno can even try to fight, cool, iron handcuffs slide around his wrists and tighten to the point of an ache. They don’t have Binding, he’s sure of it, they don’t feel the same as that. _Small mercies._

“Come on,” Quackity says, grin obvious in his voice. The blade of his axe presses against his spine and he shudders violently. “Walk.” 

So, he walks. The potion is blurring his thoughts into an incoherent mess, and the fact that the voices are going insane isn’t helping either. They’re absolutely impossible to understand at the moment, and he has a migraine already. 

They walk past the house. He isn’t sure what route they’re taking (he hasn’t been back to L’manberg at all, nor has he paid attention when Phil leaves) but they pass the house. 

He makes one move for safety. Going down without a fight seems like a horrible idea, for himself and for his pride. And maybe it’ll make the voices shut up. 

It’s all too easy to knock Quackity’s blade away, slamming his bound arms back to unbalance him, and step out of their reach with only a little bit of grace lacking. The potion is still impairing him, but what they know is that potions wear off of him pretty damn fast. It’s a product of overusing them, which he rarely thought would be useful. 

He grins, showing off his teeth. “You thought I was goin’ to make it easy just because you drugged me?” He asks, ignoring the thickness of his voice. “Come on, I didn’t think you were all that dumb.” 

He has to dodge when Ranboo swipes at him with his sword (all things considered, it’s not a bad move; the slightest tinge of fondness for the kid...) and almost stumbles, but he’s had practice fighting with his arms bound. Unfortunately. 

He doesn’t expect it when Tubbo smacks him across the face with his crossbow, though. 

It actually does knock him over, stumbling to his knees in the snow. His nose is bleeding and his mouth aches. Immediately, he prods with his tongue for broken teeth-- nothing yet. Good. He has enough problems without knocking any teeth loose, or god forbid, his tusks. 

A rough hand seizes his hair and he groans, grimacing at the painful sensation. You’d think he’d have a stronger scalp, but nah-- even the pulling of his hairbrush hurts most days. A strong hand is agony.

“I really don’t want to have to cause you unnecessary pain, Techno. If you cooperate, you’ll be back here by nightfall, safely respawned in your bed.” Tubbo leans in front of him, his smile almost sympathetic. “And maybe you’ll learn your lesson. Maybe not. But I don’t want to have to hurt you unnecessarily, so can you behave?” 

Techno grimaces again at the overly-polite tone in the teenager’s voice. What the fuck has _happened_ to him? The kid he knew not all that long ago wouldn’t be so apparently gleeful about dragging a man to his death. But he’s sure smiling about it like it’s making him oh, so pleased. 

(The scars on his face might explain it.)

Quackity (or maybe Fundy, he can’t tell just from a gloved hand) yanks at his hair. He hisses, turning his head to try and see how he could fight his way out of this, when he hears a sound. 

A sound he’s not sure how to decipher, until his eyes land on the house. 

In the big window, the one he leaves uncovered in the morning because they can see the sunrise and it’s _beautiful_ , he can see a green-clad figure with a frighteningly white mask, leaning right over where he knows Tommy’s bed is.

The sound is Tommy’s voice, indistinct because of the distance even with his keen ears, likely begging or apologizing—

_No no no no no--_

He lurches against the hand holding him, managing to get free without losing a handful of hair, and scrambles forward to try and get on his feet. 

_Oh god, no, not this, not this, not_ **_now_ ** _, Tommy’s getting better!_

He thinks Tommy could theoretically handle Techno being executed, because he’d just show up back at home after respawn. That’s fine. What’s definitely not fine is him being in the hands of the man who practically broke him again. 

(It also clicks in his head. _Dream probably lead them here._

Because getting him cursed wasn’t bad enough.) 

The flat of a blade smacks across the side of his head and he falls forward into the snow, not bothering to restrain an angry squeal. “Fuck you, let me go!” He snaps, pushing himself up on his shoulder and straining his wrists against the cuffs. 

_Have to get inside  
_ _Help Tommy!!  
_ **_KILL DREAM KILL DREAM KILL DREAM  
_ ** _Blood for the blood god  
_ **_REMEMBER YOUR PROMISE._ **

“I told you to cooperate with us,” Tubbo sighs, and now his hand, distinct in how deceptively small it is for how strong it seems, tangles at the top of his hair, yanking him up onto his knees again.

Even as he tries to struggle away, he holds firm until he swears the strands will tear from his head and leave him bloody. He forces himself to stop then, still practically twitching with rage but unwilling to weaken himself further. 

“Fundy, we have another one of those potions, right?” Tubbo asks calmly, still holding his hair to keep him in place.

“Yeah, we do,” The fox’s voice is almost too pleased. 

Techno goes for his last ditch effort, and screams as loud as he can, hoping and praying that it jars Phil into consciousness so he can protect Tommy. 

_Oh god_ **_please_ ** _you stupid bird man, wake up or I’ll never forgive you,_ **_ever_ ** _, I’ll kill you, wake up!_

“Shut up,” someone says, and his jaw is grabbed so tight it aches. “or we’ll fucking gag you.” That’s Quackity, then. The level of venom suits him.

In response, he snaps at his hand with his teeth. _Caged animal_ , the voices screech. He has to agree. 

He can’t see the window anymore. His eyes are blurry, though not from tears of sorrow. It’s all pain and feral rage. 

His head is pulled back forward, and Quackity’s gloved thumb hooks behind his bottom teeth, to pull open his jaw. He can’t bite him at this angle, but he hates the way it feels. He feels cut open already, vulnerable and easily harmed. 

He hears a bottle be opened with the pop of a cork. He snarls as best he can with his mouth held open. 

“Now, you’re going to cooperate and drink this, or we’ll just let you choke until you pass out and drag your body to L’manberg.” Tubbo’s voice is still kind, though he can barely hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. “What’s it going to be, Techno?” 

Quackity removes his thumb. He draws in a ragged breath. “G-give me the potion.” 

Tubbo grins down at him. “Good choice, Techno. I knew you wouldn’t make this harder for yourself.” He doesn’t hand over the potion, though, considering the state of his bound arms; he tips it into his mouth and lets him drink it like that. 

It’s humiliating, it’s hard to swallow in this angle, and some of it spills over the edges of his lips. But he manages to swallow it. 

The heaviness hits him hard, along with a sharp shock of pain through his whole body. Weakness and harming, then. Maybe something else. He's too weary to figure it out.

It makes him very pliant, apparently, because he can’t protest when he’s dragged to his feet and prodded into walking again. 

He stares back at the house until it disappears behind the trees and the gloom of the snow. 

He feels like he’s failed.

—

Tommy wakes up and the house is still quiet. The sun is just rising and his blankets are warm, comfortable, heavy wool draped over him. He stretches out in his nest, on his belly, all muscles extending as he stretches the length of his bed and then flops back down, boneless. 

He can smell fresh spruce burning in the fireplace, and the scent is soothing. And he can smell coffee, so Techno’s obviously up. 

He yawns and rolls onto his back, pushing himself up on an elbow and glancing towards the kitchen. “G’mornin’, Techno,” he drawls sleepily, sitting up properly and crossing his legs on the blankets. 

His eyes land on the figure he briefly thought was Technoblade, and any sense of warmth he’s felt for the past two months disappears. He’s suddenly very, very awake. 

Dream tilts his masked head at him and hums a laugh. “Hey, little bird.” His voice is all too sweet. 

Tommy’s brain trips into overdrive. He needs a weapon. Where does Techno keep the weapons? He has no idea, he won’t let him have one because he doesn’t trust him with a blade yet. Which, yeah, fair, he had to clean his cuts and everything, but god he _needs_ one right now. 

Where’s Techno? And Phil? Why is Dream _here_?

“Y’know, I figured Techno knew something about where you were,” Dream says casually, practically drawling. “But I didn’t think he’d let you stay with him! It’s pretty sweet, when I think about it.” 

He has a hand on his sword and he’s bouncing a little as he talks. He’s anticipating this, _excited_ almost. 

Tommy scrambles back on the edge of the bed. “Don’t get close to me,” he whispers sharply, breath wheezing as he tries not to fall into a full panic attack. His wing aches like Dream’s hand is around it again. 

Dream hums. “I don’t think you get to make demands right now, Tommy. After you ran away and scared me half to death... I was so _worried_.” He crosses his arms and tilts his head, making a light tsking sound that reminds him bizarrely of Tubbo. 

“I… y-you don’t care about m-me,” god why is he stuttering, he got over that years ago, “you just— y-you just wanted me to b-be where you could control me and hurt me if I did anything w-wrong.” He wraps his arms around himself, ignoring to urge to hunch down into himself, to make himself small. Dream wants him to be _small_ , so he— so he’ll try not to be. 

He taps his foot, just a little impatient. “Of course I care about you, little bird,” his voice is smooth and gentle, familiar in a way that makes traitorous warmth build in Tommy’s chest. “I’m your friend, aren’t I? The only one you’ve got left?” He tilts his head far to the right and he can feel his eyes on him. “I care about you a lot.” 

Outside, there’s some kind of commotion. He can’t tell what it is, but he can hear the impact of two hard materials meeting with a painful thunk, and voices, and footsteps in the snow. There are people outside. Why are there— why are there people outside? 

Fuck, he can’t think straight. Is anyone even there? He can’t see the window because of Dream. 

“Is that what they’ve been telling you?” Dream asks, honey-sweet sympathy dripping from his words. “That I never cared about you? Oh, Tommy, _Tommy_. I thought you were smarter than that.” He taps his fingers along the hilt of his sword. “Of course Technoblade would tell you I didn’t care. He doesn’t like me at all. In fact, I’m pretty sure he hates me.” 

Tommy thinks about Techno’s flat horror after Dream visited. His nightmares. The nameless evil that he constantly seems to be combating. That scar on his arm, that wasn’t there one day and then he went out with Dream and then it _was_ there. He thinks about shortened pink hair and the last time he thinks he genuinely saw him break down. He thinks about four months without hearing his brother’s voice. 

“And of course, Philza doesn’t trust me because _Techno_ doesn’t trust me. And _they_ trust each other more than anything.” Dream chuckles. “More than _you_.” 

That hurts, a lot, and Tommy does hunch now. It’s not— true. Not anymore. They trust him, right? 

Outside, someone screams. The voice is between animal and human, but undeniably desperate and full of pain. 

_Is that Techno?_

“But I promise, Tommy… I’m your friend. I just want you to be safe and happy.” Dream steps forward, suddenly so close he’s honestly crowding Tommy into his messy bed. His heart rate spikes and he can bear a whining sound that he’s fairly sure is him. 

“You— you broke my wing,” he whispers, hugging himself, staring at Dream’s mask with tears welling in my eyes. “Y-you wouldn’t let me f-fly and you broke my wing and I-I— you made me want t-to _kill myself_.” He’s never admitted that last part to himself. Sure, he’s thought about it, but he’s never admitted it was Dream’s fault… 

“I had to do that, to keep you safe,” His voice is so patient, it reminds him of Wilbur and _oh, that’s a bad comparison he doesn’t want to think about Wilbur right now._ “If you had just listened to me, I wouldn’t have had to do that to you!” Stepping closer, so close he could grab him, and the whining sound is definitely him because it gets choked off as he begins to cry. 

He’s frighteningly hyperaware of everything about Dream right now. 

How this mask must be new, because it’s practically unblemished, just pure white porcelain and black eyes and that smile that makes his skin _crawl_. Even though his voice is kind and he’s sure he’s smiling under the mask, he has his hand wrapped around his sword. He’s humming lightly as he thinks and the sound makes him want to scream.

“It’s really all your fault, you know,” Dream says with a sigh, like Tommy’s perceived misbehavior is genuinely painful for him. “You were doing so well! I was considering letting you visit L’manberg again, I was considering letting you have a little more freedom, but no, you hid things from me and then you ran away--”

His hand darts forward and wraps tightly around Tommy’s wrist, yanking him forward so hard his shoulder makes a disturbing popping sound. It isn’t dislocated (yet?) but it hurts and it only makes him sob more, trying to scratch at Dream’s hand and wrist to free himself. 

“I’m really, really disappointed. I thought we were making progress, but I’m worried we’re going to have to start over.” 

Another loud sound outside. A voice he thinks he should recognize, rendered unintelligible due to the window and the distance. It’s hard to focus on anything but Dream’s hand and Dream’s mask and how he can hear Dream chuckling at his pathetic attempt to free himself. 

He’s pulled up to his feet-- his shoulder aches and he’s forced to wobble over onto his left side and it hurts-- and Dream makes an appraising noise as he glances out the window. “They’re about done out there. Let’s get going.” 

“No!” Tommy hates how squeaky and choked his voice comes out, as he pulls at his arm and holds the other against his chest. He feels so tiny and helpless and the fact that he’s crying doesn’t help. “Let me go, I’m not going anywhere with you, I _hate_ you--” 

Dream slaps him. Backhands him, really. The clasp of his glove cuts into his cheek and he stumbles to the side, losing his footing and falling to his knees. He’s still holding his wrist, so his arm is wrenched above his head and oh-- fuck, this is way too vulnerable of a position. 

Where are Phil and Techno? They’ve both said they won’t let anything happen to him, and yet, this is happening, Dream is going to take him away and the whole thing is going to repeat itself. He isn’t strong enough for it to happen again. He’ll break into whatever he wants of him, he doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction-- 

“Come on, little bird,” Dream says, softness gone, back to the angry maniac he was the day he ran away. He digs his nails into his arm until blood begins to well and it looks terrifying red. “Don’t make me break your arm. I don’t like hurting you like that, but I will.” 

His vision is going black at the edges, because his breathing is too shallow. He can vaguely taste blood in his mouth, though he isn’t sure where it’s from. His lungs or his mouth? 

“You’re not helping yourself at all, fighting me,” he snarls, pulling him back to his feet and dragging him to the window. “You see that? Technoblade isn’t going to be able to help you, little bird.” 

Tommy blinks furiously in an attempt to see what’s going on. Everything looks blurry from his tears and the bright sunrise, but things begin to clear. 

Four figures in armor. Blood splattered on the snow. The gleam of weaponry. 

Pink hair, knocked loose from whatever style it was in, shining like a candle in the sunlight. Techno, being held in place by-- looks like Big Q?-- and having a potion poured into his mouth by-- by-- 

He chokes on a sob. That’s-- that’s Tubbo, he can see his horns because he isn’t wearing a helmet and his tail stubbornly pokes out from underneath his chestplate like it always has. Why the fuck is Tubbo here, forcing a potion down Techno’s throat? Why is any of this _happening_?

“See? He’s all tied up at the moment.” Dream laughs, a short, mean sound. “Not that I think he’d come and save you. He didn’t care before, why would he now?” 

The rage that fuels him is hotter than the still burning fire. None of this is fair. Techno is out in the snow, bloody, drugged, being taken away in some form or another. Tubbo is-- something’s obviously _wrong_ with him. Phil hasn’t come to save him. Dream is going to take him back. 

He’s not going to let him. 

Tommy grits his teeth, fighting against how helpless he feels, and slams his body back against Dream. He obviously wasn’t expecting it, because his grip loosens for a second and he takes a faltering step to the side. 

He takes the liberty of raising an elbow to slam it into his stupid mask. The porcelain shatters, because for all his faults, he’s still stronger than he looks. 

It helps that he has rage-fueled adrenaline rushing through him. 

Dream curses, all thick, and when he looks up, his mask has completely fallen away. His face is bloody, and if Tommy’s seeing it right, he has a tooth missing. 

It feels good, to hurt him. He grins. 

“Oh, so we’re doing it like this, huh?” Dream asks, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve. He bares his teeth-- yep, one is missing on top, to the right. He feels good about that. “Fine, then. You want me to be mean, little bird?” 

He reaches back and grabs his axe from his back. 

“Do you remember what I told you would happen if you disobeyed me again?” He asks, voice calm. 

Tommy steps back, hands in fists, scanning the room for anything he could use as a weapon. There are knives in the kitchen, he knows exactly where they are. If he can just get over there… 

Dream lunges forward, effectively knocking him off his feet, and attempts to wrestle him onto his stomach. 

Panic replaces the adrenaline. _He’s going to cut my wings off!_

“If you would just-- fucking-- _behave_ , I wouldn’t have to do this. It’s really all your fault, little bird.” His eyes are sharp with a manic delight. “If you keep fighting, I’ll make it worse for you. Sit still and it won’t hurt too bad.” 

Tommy spits in his face, just because it sounds like a good idea. It’s tinted slightly red. 

Dream hits him again, but he barely feels it. He can barely breathe and everything aches and he’s going to have his wings hacked off with an axe. Maybe he’ll die. Maybe Dream will finally kill him and he’ll be free from the fucking nightmare that is existence.

“Oh, little bird. You really like riling people up, don’t you.” He’s turned partially on his side, until Dream can grab his broken wing and straighten it out. 

He doesn’t give in. He just… goes _still_ , stiff, doesn’t actively fight, just makes it harder for himself to be manhandled. 

Tommy stares at the wall as he feels his blade brush against his feathers. 

And then, a sound he hesitates to say is comforting, but is definitely welcome. The slash of a sword, followed by Dream letting out a harsh cry of pain. 

“Get off,” Phil growls, low and dangerous and colder than the wind outside, “of my son.” 

—

The smash of the anvil against Techno’s ribs is comparable to being stabbed, only much, _much_ more intense. He feels a few ribs crack, too much squishing to be healthy, and so much blood begins to pour. 

It’s so intense that his vision goes blurry and he screams, loud and animalistic. 

All he can see is bright red and a few white flashes. His head is spinning, and he can’t see well at all, he can’t even make his eyes focus.

His... his glasses are broken, he notices blearily, sitting on the floor of the execution stage with a spiderweb crack through both lenses and the arms crooked. That sucks; he has a spare pair at home, but that’s so far away… 

There’s a hole in the iron bars. And in his ribs, too. And— and the anvil is smashed into the stone bricks under his feet. He’s only on his feet because his whole body is tense with pain and the adrenaline from the totem. 

He needs to get out. There’s some kind of commotion nearby, explosions? They’re all distracted anyway, he can hear them yelling. He needs to get away. 

He stumbles out of the hole in the bars, wrapping his now bloodsoaked cloak around himself and pressing a hand to his shredded shirt and ribcage to stem the bleeding. 

His fingers touch something. Hard. His ribs. He’s touching his own ribs and oh god this is a _nightmare_. He thought— he always thinks the totem will be more like respawning, but no. It just feels like he’s been yanked away from something infinitely more comfortable than this. 

He keeps walking. There are definitely explosions behind him, he can feel the heat of them on his back, but they don’t pursue him. Whatever is happening has taken their attentions away from him.

His vision is all blurry, with tears or blood or lack of glasses or just pain. He’s shaking, a significant amount, to the point he keeps losing his grip on his wounded side. If he trips... he’s not getting back up. He’s going to die there. 

And sure, he’ll respawn (won’t he? oh gods he hopes he will) but he knows it’s an agonizing ordeal. It won’t be like dying in games, in any sort of playful way; it’ll be real, too real.

He can’t believe he’s actually missing places like Hypixel, right now, but he is. Things were simpler, before he was tempted into this godforsaken server. 

He needs to get home. Home is good; home means Tommy and Phil and Marnie the stuffed pig and his fireplace. He’s so cold, his fingers feel numb. Maybe that’s the blood loss or the fact that his hands kind of fucking suck. 

He hasn’t been this hurt in. A while. Years, surely. Because he’s Technoblade, he can get himself out of any situation with little more than scratches and perhaps some damaged armor, at most. 

He’s not sure how he’s going to get out of this one. 

(It reminds him of the day he got stabbed. 

He was eighteen. He was miles ahead of everyone else his age in terms of skill, but still, nowhere close to perfect. 

His hands were his downfall. He had been fighting all day, back to back with Phil. He can’t remember why they were fighting, just that it was a nasty, bloody affair, and the voices were delighted about it. 

His hands trembled once before giving out entirely, his fingers loosening around his blade until it fell to the ground. 

Panic filled him up to his head as the person in front of him grinned, and plunged their sword into his side. 

It was... it wasn’t painful, not at first. It just felt bizarre and _violating_ , as the sword stabbed through the flesh just above his hip and then was withdrawn just as fast. He didn’t make a sound beyond a gasp, one hand going to the wound and the other tugging his skull mask further over his face to hide his teary eyes.

Phil, blessedly, did not see him get stabbed. He hid it until they were safely back wherever they were living at the time, when the pain got to the point he couldn’t breathe without whimpering. 

He remembers every word of that scolding.)

He’s not sure how he’s going to get out of this one.

It’s a long, _long_ walk home, and he’s sure he’ll go unconscious long before he gets there. He doesn’t have his communicator— because of course he left it at home, likely laying on the kitchen counter unassumingly. 

By any luck, Phil got Tommy away from Dream, and hopefully killed the bastard mercilessly for good measure. But he isn’t particularly optimistic; luck is rarely on his family’s side. 

Gods, everything hurts. From his feet, aching from however far they had to walk, to his hands, twitching and overwhelmed after trying to fight, to the hole in his ribs, which hurts so badly it almost _doesn’t_ anymore.

He isn’t sure how far he walks, but he ends up stopping next to some building and leaning on the wall. He can’t draw a full breath. Suddenly, he’s very scared the impact of the anvil damaged something much deeper than just a broken rib or two. It makes him start to shake even worse. 

He needs to look at the wound. 

He swallows a mouthful of blood and saliva and bile, and pries both his cloak and his shirt away from his side. 

His vision goes blurry looking at it. It’s all red and bits of white and something black (bits of metal?) and it looks almost alien. He hasn’t been this hurt in—in— in forever? Has he _ever_ been this hurt? 

From just at his collarbone to the bottom of his ribcage on his right side is just. Broken skin and damaged muscle. It ranges from a mild scrape at his collarbone to an outright _hole_ in his ribs, higher up, and then more minor but still awful scrapes down his side. 

Along the outermost edges of the wounds, the torn flesh is already beginning to show signs of rot, in the whitening of the skin, the faintest trace of green along the edges... 

Oh no. 

He hasn’t been hurt enough for his body to resort to rotting in a long time. It’s a biological quirk they discovered when he was small; in fact, Phil figured it out before he did, seeing as he spent the first two weeks with him pretty much unconscious. 

When he’s severely injured, his body seems to pick up on some latent piglin blood and decides to begin zombifying him. Because why not, right?

He draws in a ragged breath and starts walking again, after carefully removing his shirt and wrapping it around his middle as a makeshift bandage. 

At most, he has a few hours until the rot really sets in. He just has to find his way home before then. Easy. He’s the Human GPS, he can get himself home. 

Right?

He keeps struggling. He’s not even out of L’manberg yet. 

He. Isn’t sure if he remembers how to get out, honestly. Blood loss… sucks, his brain feels like it’s slowly shutting down. The fact that he got drugged doesn't help either. He can’t even focus on the voices, despite the fact that they’re definitely talking. Probably making fun of him, which is fair. Literally anyone could kill him right now.

“Hey!” 

He jolts at the somewhat-familiar female voice, before letting out a low moan of pain. Everything shifted when he jumped. 

“Technoblade,” Niki says, slightly breathless as she comes up next to him. “I saw what happened. God, I am so _sorry._ I don’t know what’s wrong with people here—”

“No time,” he says through gritted teeth, even though her face is a familiar and comforting sight. It makes him think of being a teenager, because Niki was the only one of Wilbur’s friends he genuinely felt he clicked with. (Schlatt was a… _weird_ exception.) “What do you want?” 

Her face gets stony. “I want to help you. You’re trying to get out of the country, yeah?” 

He nods. She briskly takes him by the arm and leads him down another path. He has little reason to trust her, other than her generally having a good track record and being dependable. 

He swallows his natural distrust and follows her. He’s hurt and he’s disoriented and god he just wants to go home and lay down with his head on Phil’s lap for a little while. He wants to feel like a tired little kid again, he wants his dad to brush out his hair and put him to bed like he did back then. 

He’s so tired. If getting home means trusting someone, he’s going to do it.

“I know a few good paths out,” Niki brushes her hands off on her shirt. “Where do you need to go?” 

Techno swallows more than this distrust. Mostly saliva and bile. He refuses to vomit, because he’s fairly sure that’ll break something inside of him. “N...North. Been livin’ in the tundra.” 

“Okay,” she says, nodding. She takes a bag off her shoulder and digs through it for a moment. “You can take healing pots, right? They won’t accidentally kill you or anything?” 

He shakes his head lightly. His throat hurts too badly to talk more than necessary, even breathing makes pieces of his broken ribs press uncomfortably into his insides. “C-could use harming, too, if you’ve got t-that and a cloth.” 

“Why would you need harming?” She asks, handing over the healing potion. When she notices how weak his hands are, she puts his palms around the bottle gently. Her hands are somehow calloused and soft at the same time. Her nails are painted blue, and he’s not sure why his brain latches into that detail. “Just take that, for now. Once we can stop, I’ll try and see if I can patch you up.” 

Techno nods— it sounds like it's a better plan than his, which was essentially “ _wander until I either make it home or die_ ”. 

He uncorks the potion with his teeth— he barely trusts himself to grip the bottle, uncorking it would be a nightmare— and takes almost the whole thing in one drink. It’s a full dose, an expertly brewed potion, so the effect is immediate and disorienting. 

His entire body goes warm, like he’s slipped into a comfortingly hot bath, and he can feel his skin begin to grow back together. He groans lowly at the feeling of the healing taking place, and of his rotting skin protesting against the magic. His head feels fuzzier, like he’s drunk, but in an objectively pleasant way. 

He swallows the last of it and clutches the bottle in his shaking hands. “Thank you,” he says, voice still ragged. 

“No problem. Figured you’d need it,” Niki is walking quickly, but she doesn’t seem to be outpacing him on purpose. “What happened to you? You disappeared, after everything…” 

“I’m retired,” he mumbles. The healing is still taking effect and it’s weird. Maybe it’ll help his hands, though. (His braces are covered in blood, and fleetingly he realizes how awful it's going to be to clean the leather.) “Been tryin’ to keep to myself.” 

“That makes sense,” she says, leading him towards a small bridge over the lake. It looks rickety but serviceable. “I’d do the same. I-- I don’t actually live here, anymore. I was only here for the day, to check on something… good thing I was, then…” She sighs heavily. She looks… really tired. He remembers her looking a lot more lively before all this happened. 

_This server is cursed_ , a voice offers. He tries not to laugh, because _what do you know about cursed?_

Instead, he wipes either potion or blood from his mouth and follows her along the bridge. “Why’re you helpin’ me, Niki?” He sounds immature, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t make sense.

“I have plenty of reasons,” she glances back at him, a small, tired smile on her mouth. “You’re my friend, for one. And you… you’re Wil’s brother, and I don’t think he’d forgive me if I let you die here.” 

“We’re friends?” He asks thickly, suddenly a tiny bit choked up between that and the idea that Wilbur would still be protective over him, after all they’ve both done.

She nods, turning forward again. “And… I couldn’t just let them _kill you_ . This place… it isn’t L’manberg, not really. It hasn’t been for a long time. So I’m not… I’m not supporting their actions anymore.” She holds her head high, shoulders strong. “Wilbur was right. The place he built doesn’t exist anymore. It’s just… a _shell_. And I’d like to take it down.” 

Techno admires her strength in a way he can’t explain. Sure, he’s strong, but she just-- she sounds so much more _there_ , so much more genuine. She’s _morally_ stronger, he thinks. (She wouldn’t be peer-pressured into killing a teenager and then subsequently killing everyone. He thinks she could cause real change, if she wanted to.)

“Here,” Niki says, leading him to a patch of trees just off the bridge. There’s a collection of large, fallen logs. “Sit down, I’ll patch you up before you go.”

He doesn’t argue, sitting down heavily on a log and closing his eyes. The potion has chased away his exhaustion, but he’s had so much in his system today, he can feel a horrible crash in his future. 

That’s fine, he knows how to deal with bad comedowns. He just needs to get _home_ first. 

He takes off his cloak when instructed, and tries not to either shudder or blush when she inspects his chest-- er, the wound. 

“I was going to say it wasn’t that bad, but… it’s pretty bad,” Niki admits, taking out bandages from her bag along with another potion. He knows the look of it-- it’s a diluted healing potion, ideal for cleaning wounds. "I'm sure there's an obvious answer, but... why are you _rotting_?" She's doing an excellent job concealing her horror.

Techno can't help his low snort of amusement. It hurts his lungs and he feels like something stabs him. "Some stupid piglin quirk. Only happens when 'm really hurt." 

"Ah, that makes sense," she says. "Well, I mean. You do have a giant hole in your chest. I think a few of your ribs are broken, and... something is definitely damaged inside..." she frowns, brows knitting. "I think this is a little above my head, but I can at least keep it from getting infected, if that'll help?" 

He decides not to point out the fact that his body has technically infected itself. "That'll definitely help." 

She nods and wets a cloth with the potion. 

He bites at his lip and looks away from her, as she dabs at his wounds. "...thanks." 

She hums, tucking her hair behind her ear with her free hand. "You're welcome."

\--

Tommy knows he probably shouldn’t _watch_. 

But god, does it feel so satisfying, in the worst possible way, to see Dream struggle to his feet and stare fearfully at Philza. Even with his axe in hand and his face set in anger, he still looks like he knows he’s outmatched. 

To be fair, he looks terrifying. His eyes hold no warmth, simply enough icy rage to fill an ocean, and he’s grinning, mean and harsh. His wings are spread behind him, seeming to entirely consume the room with dark feathers and strong muscle. They almost seem to shimmer the same as the netherite sword in his hands.

Even in sleep clothes, scruffy-faced, and obviously still tired, he looks every bit the warrior he’s always been. 

Tommy feels an absurd pride, because _there’s_ the man who raised him. There’s the Angel of Death, in all his glory.

Dream steadies himself and bares his blade, giving an equally mean smile. “Oh, so now you care about Tommy?” He asks, tilting his head. “About _time_ , Philza. Really.”

Phil doesn’t even blink at the attempted taunt. He just steps forward, sword not even raised. He seems so completely unintimidated. 

The masked man seems to scramble for some kind of taunt, because his words tend to be a good part of his power, but before he can, Phil shoves him back, sending him sprawling to the floor. 

It suddenly seems so clear that Dream is just a lanky twenty-something with an axe, stripped of his mask and not looming over some more vulnerable person. In this situation, he has very little, if any, power. 

Tommy scrambles back to sit against the edge of his bed, watching with morbid fascination as Dream tries to get back to his feet and is promptly kicked down. As Phil raises his sword and puts it under his chin, pressing its tip to his skin so hard he immediately begins to bleed. 

“You talk a lot of big game for someone who spends most of his time manipulating kids, mate,” he says, almost casual if it wasn’t for the edge of a growl in it. “You couldn’t even have the decency to target an adult with your bullshit? Tommy’s _sixteen_. Really not a good look for you, Dream.”

The hysterical laugh that leaves Tommy is absolutely involuntary. 

“I’m not--” Dream chokes as Phil sets a foot on his chest and pushes the sword in closer. Blood is dripping from the wound like candlewax. “I’m not _manipulating_ him, I’m just trying to keep him safe and stopping him from hurting anyone--” 

“Oh, you’re more deluded than I thought.” His wings ruffle and he chuckles, the sound like ice. “He told us what you did. You’re either malicious or stupid, and I don’t know which one’s worse. Not letting him fly, breaking his wing-- with your bare hands, no less. You might be able to convince Tommy you were doing good for him, but I’m not as easily misled. I might have failed as a father, but at least I’m not as pathetic as you.”

Dream’s eyes flash with something in the range of terror. 

Tommy watches with wide eyes as Phil stabs him cleanly through the chest, the action smooth and practiced. Because it is. 

Dream doesn’t cry out, or even really react-- the only sign that it hurts him is a flinch of his face.

(Wilbur crumpling against Phil’s shoulder, breathless laugh audible even from far away.) 

He covers his face, then, curling himself into a little ball. The adrenaline and panic are gone now that the threat is subdued. 

His face hurts where Dream slapped him and he’s fairly sure he’s bleeding both inside his mouth and along his cheekbone. His chest aches and every breath makes him jolt with pain. Both of his wings hurt and there are scratchmarks along his arm. 

It can’t be much past six in the morning. 

Too much has happened. 

“Tommy?” The rage is gone from Phil’s voice. Tommy curls up a little tighter and nods in response. “Are you okay?” He asks, and he can hear him kneel next to him. “Can I touch you?” 

He uncurls slightly, just enough to look over at where Dream lays, dead to the world, green eyes glassy. He has one hand on his chest, resting limply against his stab wound. He’s dead, blood seeping out of his body and on the wood floor that Techno takes such good care of. 

He’s dead. 

“He’s dead!” Tommy says, voice coming out hysterical. He isn’t sure why. Maybe because this all kind of feels like the weirdest nightmare and he’s afraid this will be where it ends and he wants the satisfaction of saying it. 

“Yeah, he’s dead,” Phil confirms, resting a hand on his arm gently. “Here, let me get you cleaned up--”

Tommy starts laughing, the sound bordering on crying, and throws himself into his father’s arms, hugging him tight enough he’s sure it hurts. “Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you--” he muffles himself by burying his face in his shoulder, words lost both in his shirt and the still-fluffed feathers of his wings.

“I-- of course, you’re welcome.” He pulls him closer and hugs him back just as tight. “Do you just need me to hold you for a minute?” 

“Yeah,” he mumbles out. He can’t tell if he’s awake, it all feels kind of surreal, but he hopes he is, because he feels so relieved. Sure, Dream isn’t going to stay dead, he’s sure he wasn’t on his last life, but he’ll be gone for at least a little bit. For at least a few days, they don’t have to worry about him. 

And it feels good.

Phil runs his fingers through his sweat-damp hair and kisses his forehead gently. “Did you knock one of his teeth out?” 

Tommy’s hysterical laugh returns. “Yeah. He showed me what was happening outside, and I was just so _mad--_ ” He freezes. “Did you see what was happening outside?” 

A moment of tense silence. “Yeah,” his voice is tense again, not quite rage but something close, “I did.” 

“What were they doing? Techno was all bloody, and-- Tubbo looked so… _wrong_ …” Despair begins to sink into him again, thinking about how Tubbo seemed almost-- gleeful, in the glimpse he got of him. Nothing like his best friend, the kid he was so close to before all this happened. He tries to snuggle in closer, feeling cold despite the fire and his warmth. “Are we going to have to go after Techno?” 

“...maybe,” Phil sighs and when he glances up, his face is troubled. Conflicted. “It depends on you, really. You’re hurt, and I’m sure Dream being so rough with you wasn’t good for your lungs.” 

Seemingly on cue, Tommy coughs into his arm, violently. His chest seizes and he finds that it’s hard to stop himself. 

“So… until you’re better, I’ll stay here. Techno… he’ll find his way out of whatever happened, I’m sure.” He rubs his back as he coughs, trying to soothe him gently. “I’m staying with you, Tommy.” 

Despite the fact that he’s actively hacking his lungs out, and everything kind of hurts, and his older brother who he’s finally on some kind of good terms with has been captured,

Tommy grins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you very much for reading! please go drink some water! 
> 
> also, im sorry to anyone who's comments ive never replied to! i end up feeling repetitive and responding coherently is lowkey so hard gkrdfhjkhfgd. i love all your comments regardless and i will kiss you on the forehead for all of them <3


	11. i'm not a man of substance, or so i'll pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continuing to have a fucking blast writing this fic!! 
> 
> the gap between this one and the last is the longest break i've taken so far :'-0 feels weird. it took me a while because it was a pain in the ass dfklhfdjklhdfg
> 
> this chapter is a MONSTER, dude, there's so much here. four perspective switches. lots of emotions. philza backstory hints. just a Lot Going On.
> 
> i'm also posting this at 9am after working on it for 2 hours straight so it might not be. my cleanest work. but i FINALLY got it done, which means i need to post it before i start hating it lmaooo. y'know how it is. if something doesn't make sense, we're callin it creative liberty and movin the fuck on
> 
> title from since i saw vienna by wilbur soot. yes we're back to the your city gave me asthma lyrics

_Cream-colored endstone crunches underneath his feet._

_He's running, fingers clutched around the round shape of an ender pearl, so close to the edge, where he'll jump and throw it--_

_The ground below him begins to melt. A woman is screaming, her voice high and panicked, and he whips around to find her, but there's nothing but an abandoned jacket on the ground, a forest green against the melting stone._

_Despair fills him, and he darts forward to grab it, wanting some piece of her, but he falls through a hole and plummets down to the purple-black void. He screams as well, because his wings are gone--_

_why are they gone?_

_\-- and he can't catch himself as he falls, falls, falls--_

_Pain sparks through him as the fall begins to kill him, and he takes one more shallow, panicked breath as he--_

dies _._

-

Phil wakes up with a gasp, disoriented. For too many heartbeats, the room is still obscured with end fog and the sinking feeling that he's falling. 

He takes a deep, forceful inhale, deep enough to hurt his ribs. He's laying entangled in his blankets, he can feel them wrapped loosely around his legs and arms, one tangled around his chest. He runs his hands over the woolen fabric and breathes deeply again.

Another nightmare. It could be worse; the surreal ones are _much_ more manageable than the ones that make logical sense. 

He untangles himself from his bed. His hands are a bit shaky, but seeing how normal the loft is helps to calm him down. 

It's the same as it's been this whole time, wooden-paneled, a blue rug spread across the floor, the enderchest tucked into the corner next to Techno's armor, the windows covered by thick, black curtains. They block out most of the sunlight, though he can see enough to tell it's very early morning.

He gets up and stretches. The crack of his back and his knees is just about the thing he needed to snap himself back into reality. 

And with awareness of reality comes an awareness of something being _wrong_. 

Despite it being just at sunrise, Techno's already out of bed; his bed is even remade, blankets neatly tucked into place, that beloved pig plush of his laying against his pillows. It's too early to be awake already, even for him, and Phil's brows knit with concern. 

(He's sure he's been having nightmares as well. He's just not sure how bad.)

And... what's that sound? Someone-- someone is talking, but it doesn't sound like either of his sons. They... don't get visitors out here. They’ve had exactly one, and this voice isn’t Ranboo. They're isolated on purpose, for protection and solitude. 

Fear spikes through him. The last vestiges of the nightmare curl around him, heightening his anxiety as he walks to grab his sword and briefly contemplates grabbing armor as well. No, that's probably not a good idea. For now, he'll just grab his sword. He's fine without armor. 

As he grabs his sword, settling his fingers around it's hilt, he glances out the parted curtains. He doesn't expect to see anything. 

He looks out the moment Technoblade is hit across the face with a crossbow. 

(They don't even have the decency to shoot him.)

His eyes widen with horror as blood sprays from his face, and he falls to his knees. One of the armored figures surrounding him seizes a handful of his hair and pulls him upright. The snow is stained red.

The horror turns into a deep nausea when Tubbo-- oh, the poor kid-- leans in front of him. His horns gleam lightly in the sunrise, and Phil can see the edge of his grin. He’s speaking, but he’s too far away to hear him. Judging by the horrified grimace on Techno’s face, it’s nothing good. 

The plans he had to go downstairs and figure out what that voice was all stutter to a stop. He has to go out and help him. He’s bound by handcuffs, keeping his hands behind his back, and he looks wild, face bloody and twisted into a snarl. 

Downstairs, the voice raises. His hair does as well. 

Techno’s head whips towards the house. He can see the attentive twitch of his ear and how his eyes widen with-- what? Alarm? Fear? Can he see something? Hear something?

He wrenches away from the person holding him-- Quackity?-- and moves quickly on his knees, trying to get to his feet. 

(“Where are you off to?” Quackity asked with light curiosity. 

“Not sure yet,” Phil answered, equally light. “Just… out. Can’t stay in one place for too long, y’know?” He grabs his sword and secures it at his waist, grabbing his bag off the table and swinging it over his shoulder.

The wide smile he was given in response made his stomach turn. “Yeah, I get it. Be safe, alright?” 

“...sure.” He waved him off as he put on his hat, but he stayed right where he was.

Blocking his doorway, gold-hued wings twitching occasionally.

“Are you sure you don’t have any plans?” He's grinning, now.) 

Protective rage flares through him when a smaller figure-- he sees orange fur, perked ears, it must be Fundy-- raises his sword and smacks him in the head, sending him back to the snow. He can hear the feral snarl that leaves him, the sound enough to make him shiver even safely inside of the house. 

Tubbo seizes his hair again, yanking him back into a kneeling position. The words still aren’t intelligible, but this must be even worse, because he can hear another snarl as the group of assailants speak among themselves. 

He sees the flick of a long tail on the tallest member of the party, and feels betrayal settle around his heart. Ranboo, really? The kid seemed so nice, so _trustworthy_ , and they were both warming to him. (He’s not too proud to admit that he reminds him of a much younger Techno, of their _glory days_.) 

And now he’s part of the group arresting his son, holding a sword and hovering next to the others. 

“ _I don’t think he’ll cause any harm_ ,” Phil’s own voice echoes through his head. He had insisted that Techno let his guard down a little, to let Tommy see his friend a few times. 

Guilt mingles with the rage, and he turns sharply towards the ladder. He’s going out there, and he’s going to raise some hell. 

Just as he opens the trapdoor with a kick, he hears Techno begin to scream. The sound is hauntingly familiar, strangled and somewhere between monster and man, and his whole body straightens briefly out of terror, wings splaying out and hands going tight around his sword. 

He turns to the window. He doesn’t want to, but he has to see what they did to him. So he can offer appropriate retribution. 

He watches, horrified and a little spellbound, as Tubbo-- gentle, smart Tubbo, with his bright grin and love of insects and kind voice, the kid he saw as one of his own even when he wasn’t really-- pours a brightly-shining potion into Techno’s held-open mouth. He can hear him choking, can see the gleam of tears on his cheeks.

He practically falls down the ladder, feet meeting the floor lightly. He needs to get outside and help, he’s going to kill everyone out there, emotional connections be damned, no one can make Techno look so broken-- 

_They’ll see how he earned his title._

Phil freezes, seeing a green-clad figure leaning over Tommy on the floor, a knee planted on his back, a hand wrapped around an axe’s handle, another on his broken wing, stretching out the damaged limb. He’s talking, voice low and amused. 

“Oh, _little bird_. You really like riling people up, don’t you.” 

Tommy is laying, limp, staring at the wall. He’s not moving, save the blink of his eyelids.

Dream raises his axe, sliding it against his feathers. He’s unmasked (he can see shards of porcelain on the floor) and briefly, he forgets all about Technoblade’s situation outside. 

His rage centers itself on the man wielding an axe against his youngest son. 

In the space of a blink, he slashes his sword across his back, tearing open hoodie and shirt and flesh, blood spilling as easily as ink from a discarded well. The pained shout that leaves him is immensely satisfying, and he grins. 

“Get off,” he growls, grabbing the kid by the shoulder and yanking him away from Tommy, “of my son.” 

The fight is really over before it begins. 

Dream stumbles up to his feet, face bloody, clothing just as if not more bloody. He’s clutching his axe protectively, teeth showing as he grins, all anger. Red drips down his chin from a missing tooth. “Oh, so now you care about Tommy?” He asks, with a light tilt of his head. “About _time_ , Philza. Really.”

The taunt doesn’t sink through the layers of anger, nor would it if they weren’t there. He’s all too aware that he hasn’t been there, being reminded of it by some bastard kid who’s done nothing but hurt his sons has little effect. 

At the lack of reaction, he falters, for just a moment, green eyes widening, mouth opening. 

Phil takes the liberty of shoving him onto his back and getting him sprawled out on the floor, looming over him with the scream of revenge only getting louder in his head. It almost has a voice, now, a howl for Dream’s blood to be spilled. It’s what he deserves. 

He thinks about Tommy’s nightmares. The scar along Techno’s wrist, hidden by the bandages he wears around his hands and wrists. Tommy’s twisted, broken wing, the precise nature of the break. Techno coming home soaked in blood, nearly catatonic.

(Dream used to be such a _nice_ kid.)

Still grinning, unable to help it, he leans down to shove the blade of his sword under his chin. Blood begins to spill, and it makes his own sing with adrenaline. 

The last time he had someone at swordpoint, he was frazzled, scared out of his mind. Now, it’s nothing but hot rage and cool indifference, evening out into something _familiar_. 

( _Kill him. Do it. You want to kill him. Been too long since you enjoyed it._ **_Kill him_ ** _._ ) 

Tommy scrambles away from him, backing up until he’s against the bed. He can feel the weight of his teary blue eyes on him, he can feel the horror and confusion in them. He hates to scare the kid, but he’s sure he understands.

“You talk a lot of big game for someone who spends most of his time manipulating kids, mate,” he says, light and conversational. “You couldn’t even have the decency to target an adult with your bullshit? Tommy’s _sixteen._ Really not a good look for you, Dream.”

Tommy lets out a peel of hysterical giggles. Dream’s eyes widen slightly and his hand twitches towards his axe.

He doesn’t get that far, his starting words of “I’m not--” choking off with a gasp as he shoves the sword in closer, setting a foot on his chest. Blood drips from the wound steadily, pooling around his neck, soaking into his hair. “I’m not _manipulating_ him, I’m just trying to keep him safe and stopping him from hurting anyone--” 

“Oh, you’re more deluded than I thought.” He feels his wings spread out further, far enough to block out the sunlight from the windows, and he laughs, too low to be amused. “He told us what you did. You’re either malicious or stupid, and I don’t know which one’s worse. Not letting him fly, breaking his wing-- with your bare hands, no less.” A flicker of stronger rage mingled with guilt, and his own wing twitches with sympathetic pain. 

“You might be able to convince Tommy you were doing good for him, but I’m not as easily misled. I might have failed as a father, but at least I’m not as pathetic as you.” 

The younger man’s eyes flash with terror, but admirably, he doesn’t react beyond a light flinch when he drives the sword through his chest. 

(Wilbur’s eyes widening as he stabbed him, his free arm raising to rest around his shoulders. The light, musical chuckle that left his mouth. How he slumped against him, breathing shallow. The drip-drip-drip of blood from his wound, from his mouth, sinking into his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice thick. “Thank you.”)

He withdraws the blade roughly. Dream's body raises briefly, an aborted attempt at movement in the form of his hand raising, and then he's limp, eyes glassy.

Blood drips from the blade and onto the floor, shiny red drops. His breathing is labored, though not with effort. His shoulders are shaking with tension. He can barely hold himself still. 

(The tip of a blade sticking out of her stomach. Holding her body in his arms as the warmth left her. 

A wet hand on his cheek. “Don’t cry,” she scolded softly. “Don’t cry for me.”

Digging a grave with shaking hands.) 

Tommy whimpers next to them. Phil drops his sword, it clatters on the floor, and takes a shaking breath. The air is thick with the scent of copper and the fireplace is empty of it’s flames.

He somehow didn’t get any blood on his clothes. 

“Tommy?” He asks, unsurprised to find that his voice is too weak to sustain the rage. “Are you okay?” 

He doesn’t reply, so he kneels down next to him and hovers a hand over his shoulder. “Can I touch you?” The anger falls away for concern, at how ragged and uneven his breathing is. All the physical activity must have made him unable to breathe as well as he’s been able to for a while.

(He must have fought Dream, why else would he be bleeding?

Pride wells in his chest. _That’s his boy._ ) 

Tommy raises his head, just slightly, his eyes settling on Dream’s body. They were already wide-- they seem to be stuck that way, lately-- but they get bigger, locked on the bloody scene. 

His voice comes out high with wild amusement. “He’s dead!” He hugs his legs tighter against himself, mouth twisted in a grin so wide it looks painful. 

Phil nods, resting a hand on his arm. He’s so tense that he can feel the lines of his muscles. “Yeah, he’s dead,” he agrees quietly, trying to gently pull him out of his protective curl. “Here, let me get you cleaned up--” 

Another round of hysterical laughter leaves him, tears welling in his wide eyes. He hesitates; _oh,_ that laughter is too familiar. 

(Techno’s skull mask, splattered with red. Hysterical giggles leaving his mouth, his feet sinking into the bloody earth.) 

(Wilbur’s chaotic laughter, echoing around the small room. His hair disheveled, his eyes wild.) 

He feels tears prick his own eyes when Tommy throws himself against his chest, hugging him until his ribs ache just a little. “Thank you!” He says, practically shouting, and _keeps_ saying it, as he pushes his face against his shoulder. 

“I-- of course, you’re welcome.” Instead of crying, which is what he feels like doing at how the poor kid is obviously falling apart, he pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around him and letting him settle against his side. He’s trembling, still laughing, his breathing hitching occasionally. “Do you just need me to hold you for a minute?” He asks, a little hesitant. 

He nods, agreeing quietly, and snuggles further into his side. He shifts his shoulder to allow him to get as close as possible-- he’s too warm, a fever again?

For a few minutes, the morning quiet settles into place as he holds his son close. Phil’s thoughts drift back towards Techno, and whatever was happening outside, but… 

No, this is more important, as much as it hurts to not go after him. Tommy’s obviously _breaking_ right now, it’s obvious in his trembling and hysterical giggling and how he clings to his back, hands curled into fists in his shirt. 

He kisses his forehead and pushes back his hair. It’s damp with sweat, which helps him feel less concerned about a fever, but he’s still trembling so hard and breathing so unevenly. Poor thing.

He glances over the room; nothing was broken in the commotion, thankfully, Techno would be very upset, but there’s shards of broken porcelain across the floor, a chair is overturned, and blood marks the floor. 

Something else white sticks out against the neat spruce flooring. His brows furrow. “Did you knock one of his teeth out?”

Tommy giggles again. Phil feels an absolutely overwhelming kind of pride. “Yeah. He showed me what was happening outside, and I was just so _mad_ \--” He pauses. A tremor goes through him and he wishes he could somehow pull him closer, keep him _safe_ . “Did _you_ see what was happening outside?”

Phil swallows anxiety, rage, despair. They all taste familiar, bitter as coated medicine. “Yeah,” he feels him flinch against his side at his tone, “I did.”

The potion. Techno’s eyes, flashing with pain. The hands in his hair-- god, he must be so overwhelmed right now, he hates people touching his hair. You would guess a man so violent wouldn’t be so vulnerable to someone pulling his hair, but they learned long ago that it hurts him to the point of pacifying him. 

(“You could just cut it short,” he offered, watching as Techno brushes out his hair. “I’ll do it for you.” 

“I don’t _want_ to cut it short,” he ran the brush through a tangle and grimaced. “I’ll just end anyone who touches it. Easy fix.”)

“What were they doing?” Tommy raises his face a little, and he can see how worried his eyes are, brows furrowed deeply. “Techno was all bloody, and-- Tubbo looked so… wrong…” His voice breaks and he tries to get in closer, fingers digging into his feathers as he grips at his back. He doesn’t even flinch; it’s far from the first time.

He’s seen Techno be arrested _so_ many times. Living like he does, doing what _they’ve_ done, they’ve had their run-ins with the law. It’s almost familiar. 

Nothing like that has ever made him feel so _helpless_ , just looking at him. It makes his stomach curl.

 _Something_ tells him this isn’t a simple arrest to drag him to prison. 

(“What did they do to you?”

A shaky sigh. Eyes too wise for an eighteen-year-old face closing. Scarred hands and wrists held against his chest.

“I really don’t think you want to know, Philza.”) 

“Are we going to have to go after Techno?” His voice is defeated, like he expects the inevitable ‘yes’. 

Phil swallows again. This time, it’s all guilt, blood-salty. “Maybe,” he sighs out. Tommy looks up at him, surprise registering on his face. 

_Guilt._

“It depends on you, really. You’re hurt, and I’m sure Dream being so rough with you wasn’t good for your lungs.” He looks at the cut and blossoming bruise along his cheekbone, how his chest heaves with his uneven breathing, the spot of blood on his lip. The cuts around his wrist that are borderline clawmarks. How he’s holding one shoulder a little awkwardly. 

It doesn’t surprise him when he opens his mouth to talk, and instead promptly begins to cough, hiding it in his arm. He settles a hand on his back, just above his wings, and rubs gently.

“So… until you’re better, I’ll stay here. Techno… he’ll find his way out of whatever happened, I’m sure.” _Hopefully. God, please, let him get out of this._ “I’m staying with you, Tommy.”

Through the coughs, he thinks he might hear another giggle.

-

“So… does it hurt?” Niki asks, throwing her bag over her shoulder and holds a hand out to help 

Techno back to his feet. “The rot, I mean.”

If he had the energy, he’d laugh. He settles for a pale smile as they start walking. (He can feel a scrape along his jaw sting as his face moves.) 

“Yeah, it hurts. Have you, uh, ever gotten a chemical burn?” He pulls his cloak around his shoulders clumsily; as the spike of adrenaline from being yanked from the brink of death drains slowly, so does his ability to use his damaged body, but especially his hands, which are steadily going numb. 

“Oh yeah,” she nods, touching her hair and drawing a lock of it around her finger. “Does it feel like that?” 

“Kind of. It’s like, take the pain of a chemical burn, and put it on the edges of a wound that’s already hurtin’ you…” he winces when he brings his arms down from where he secured the clasp at the front of his cloak-- it pulls at his wound more than he expected, and it aches down to his broken bones. “It’s pretty miserable, I’m not gonna lie.”

Niki laughs, the sound comforting in a way that he can’t explain. It draws another weak smile from him. “I would think so. I have no clue how you’re still on your feet, you look like you’re about to pass out.” Her eyes dart to his bandages and she smiles, showing off her teeth. She has fangs; he’s never noticed, but they suit her. “Or die, I don’t know.” 

He musters the energy to smirk, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Technoblade never dies.” 

She returns the glance with her eyebrows raised. “Uh-huh.” Her expression is disbelieving but incredibly amused. “Never.”

Techno fiddles with his braces absentmindedly. Dried blood flakes off of them and he winces out of disgust. _Gross._ You’d think he’d be used to it by now, but he isn’t. It’s dry in most places, but along the back of his left palm and wrist, it’s still tacky. 

“...I used a totem of undying,” he admits very quietly, pulling at the laces as much as he can with his weakening fingers. "That's why I'm not... y'know."

“Oh.” Her voice is weaker than usual. He can see her hand tighten around the strap of her bag. “That… explains it. When I saw the anvil fall on you, I could have sworn you were dead. I just thought the message didn’t show.” She pauses, walking slightly slower. He slows himself as well. “Was that why your eyes and mouth had that glow…?” 

He pulls at his laces as hard as possible, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth. His fingers begin to tremble. “Yeah, the totem… does that.” He should know. “I thought I died there, too.” 

He raises his hand to his chest, not to the neatly wrapped wound underneath his cloak, but instead to the small but stark burn on his chest, from the totem tearing itself from where it was settled against his chest. It’s always such a small wound for such a strong form of magic. It even fades with time; the few other totem scars he has have disappeared. So have Phil's, and he's done it so many more times.

He presses his fingers against the burn. It stings with pain throughout his chest, spreading out like vines over his torso, but he can barely feel it in his fingers. “I… I see why I was warned against using it,” his voice comes out soft. 

(“Techno-- oh god, what happened?” Phil’s hands gripped around his shoulders. His loose hair falling around his face, hat discarded, dust and blood discoloring his clothes. 

His head lolling to his shoulder as he stared at him through his eyelashes. “I… I don’t know what…”)

He suddenly feels very, _very_ small. Like a literally-withering child. Or like when he was stabbed. Or after the ruins. 

Every time he’s avoided death just seems like it’s piling on top of him, and his shoulders slump under the weight of it. 

Niki gently rests her hand on Techno’s arm, just for a moment. It’s warm and jolts him back into reality, and he pretends his chest doesn’t twist a little when he brushes her away. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. 

His chest feels tight and so does his throat. He swallows. He feels like he’s going to cry, but he refuses to cry in front of Niki. She’s nice, he is begrudgingly trusting her right now, but he hasn’t cried in front of anyone but Phil and Tommy in so long.

He crosses his arms. He’s a bit cold, without his shirt; it had been uselessly soaked through with blood and torn to pieces from the anvil. He hasn’t been out of the house without a shirt on in years. Which is funny, considering how much he had to pay for the body he wanted. 

He brushes his fingers over the bandages. His scars might be all fucked up after this, but that’s fine; he prefers his battle scars to those anyway. 

“So,” Niki says, not light but far more casual than before. “Do you have any idea how to get home from here?” 

Techno glances over at her, still absently running his fingers along the bandages. They’re really rough, and it’s distracting. “Not really. Haven’t been back since I settled down out there.” 

She opens her mouth to offer some bit of knowledge, and who knows, he’d probably listen in this state, but behind them, he can hear footsteps.

Running footsteps. 

He doesn’t hesitate in turning sharply, reaching to his belt for his sword, stepping in front of Niki, who’s drawn a knife. There’s no sword, of course; it’s likely still laying in the snow underneath the trees. 

He wants to whine from displeasure. He _can_ fight with his hands, but he’d rather not; he doesn’t think he could land a solid punch like this, and kicking is entirely out of the way with how unstable and heavy he feels from bloodloss and the slowly approaching adrenaline/potion crash. Not to mention how much fighting would tear open his wounds, desperately trying to heal. 

And he’s beginning to feel entirely overwhelmed, the adrenaline turning into a low, buzzing sensory overload underneath all the pain and the fuzziness from the lingering weakness. (He remembers why he stopped taking potions.) 

A tall figure approaches them, all black and white, with faintly glowing eyes in the gloom of the trees. A golden crown glints as they run up. 

“Ranboo!” Niki says, her voice full of relief. “How did you get out here?”

Techno growls at the sight of the tall teenager, stepping even further in front of his friend. Sure, he can’t fight, but the lake isn’t too far away. Worst comes to worst, he’ll chase the kid into it. 

(No, he knows he won’t. He won’t use another hybrid’s natural disadvantages against him; it’s against his morals, skewed as they are. People did that to him when he was younger, and it leaves a mark. 

He killed several people for pulling his tail and ears in fights. He doesn’t let many people touch them anymore.) 

Ranboo stops in front of them, his breathing heavy as he tries to catch it, his gloved hand resting on his chest. “Oh, I’m not meant to run that fast,” he gasps between pants for breath, “Not at all, ow.” He’s out of the armor he was wearing earlier in the day, back in his ridiculous suit, complete with that red tie and an eye of ender sparkling on his lapel. 

He catches his breath after a tense moment, running a hand through his mismatched bangs. “Hello.” 

Techno observes him warily, eyes darting over his ridiculously lanky form. He had a hand in his capture, if only a small one. He’s not as at fault as the other three, who either held him in place or drugged him or ran the whole operation with a smile, like Tubbo did. They were objectively worse, but Ranboo was still there and okay with it, after he had (admittedly hesitantly) trusted him in his home. 

~~You’d think he’d stop feeling some level of betrayal after so many times.~~

“Hey, Ranboo,” Niki acknowledges again, pushing Techno’s arm away and stepping forward. She’s smiling, her eyes soft as she looks at him. “Did you follow us?” 

“Yeah, I saw you leaving,” he admits, his tail wrapping around his waist. It’s tipped with snow-white fur that stands out harshly against his black suit jacket, and the movements catch Techno’s eyes without even trying. It’s stupid. “I, um… I wanted to help.” 

“I don’t need your help,” he mutters, his whole body feeling tense. His ribs are aching, though he’s sure he’s not feeling the full extent of his wounds. Niki said she thought there was internal damage, but he can’t feel any of that yet. So he knows it has to be worse than he’s feeling. 

He’s just so tired and overwhelmed. Everything feels like a lot in a way it hasn’t in a long time.

“I know you don’t,” Ranboo agrees in a distracted voice. “You probably, um, really hate me? And that’s fair, ‘cause I did… help them capture you. For the record, I really didn’t want to execute you? I mean, I wasn’t here for what you did, and you seem… nice enough. You’re nice to Tommy, at least, and that’s good, ‘cause he’s obviously… been through a lot.” 

As he rambles, he pulls at his gloves, fiddling with the buttons. He doesn’t make eye contact, though that makes sense. “And you’ve only been nice to me so far. I have no reason to want you _dead_. So I didn’t want to do any of that. I’m, uh… I’m really aware of the fact that I’m a bit of a… pushover? Haha...” 

He narrows his eyes at him and snorts disapprovingly. (He’s been making a lot of piglin noises today. Human language is just so _limited_ in its noises of derision.) “Get to the point.” 

“Right! Um, okay, it’s just-- I remember the way to your house, that’s all. I don’t know if you do, and they said you haven’t been here in a while, so I wanted to help you get home.” He clasps his hands in front of himself, leaning down slightly to see them better. His eyes are wide and sincere with meaning. 

But he always looks like that. Stupid earnest kid. Techno hates the tiny spark of fondness that lights in his chest at the sight of his face, reminding him all too much of Tommy ~~and himself~~.

Niki laughs softly, a little nervously but generally still sweet. “I don’t know if that’s not a good idea, Ranboo. All your wandering around... haven’t they been watching you a lot, lately? We don’t need to put Techno in any more trouble…”

He crosses his arms over his bare chest, the pressure on his wound making his vision go fuzzy. “Give Niki the coordinates and go away.” Are his words slurred? He can’t tell. Everything feels like it’s going too fast. “I don’t want your help.”

He can’t crash now. He has to get home. It isn’t safe here. 

_Get home!  
_ Let Dadza help you  
 _Hugs and sleep  
_ Gapples!! 

“Oh-- yeah, I could do that,” Ranboo’s voice is small, and he fiddles with his tail, fingers twirling in the fur. “But I don’t remember them. I just know the way because I’ve walked it so many times.” His shoulders hunch a little and his long, furred ears droop. “I know you must be angry, I don’t blame you. But I really… really want to help. To, um, make up for what I did.” 

His vision is blurry. 

He feels so patently _awful_ , something about the situation and the totem and the potions and the emotions are all making him feel like he’s spiraling, falling, tripping off some awful tall cliff, colliding with the ground and breaking into thousands of little pieces.

There’s a hole in his ribs and an odd ache in his heart and he touched his own _bones_ earlier and he’s sure the rot is growing, eating up the edges of the wound…

(He doesn’t know what will happen if it grows too much. He’s never let it get that bad.

He’s never let it get that bad.

He knows he’s still _alive_ , he can feel his heartbeat and his ragged breathing and the blood rushing through his veins, but what if he dies and the rot is his end? What if because of this, he becomes some sort of empty-headed, shambling zombie, ripped clean of all his strength and intellect and carefully gathered knowledge?

Oh god, that sounds worse than anything else he’s been through. Worse than his childhood, worse than his darkest days in the Nether, worse than the ruins, worse than Phil leaving, worse than Wilbur calling him a monster, worse than--) 

“Techno!” Niki shakes his arm gently, her hand clasped around him. Ranboo is on his other side, hands hovering near him, a quiet little worried chirp leaving his mouth. “What’s wrong? You got so still, and you were breathing so heavy… is your wound hurting you?” 

Techno brushes her away and wraps his arms around himself, tugging his cloak in closer. His eyes feel hot with unshed tears and he’s shaking all over, barely able to hold himself together.

God, this is awful. He’s sure he deserves this, he _knows_ he’s not a good person, he knows he’s done so much wrong, but this situation is so awful and nightmarish. 

(Despite the heavy dose of weakness, Techno had fought like hell the entire trip to L’manberg. 

“Quit it,” Quackity snaps, smacking his straining hands. “You’re not getting out of those.” 

His hands were almost useless by then, fingertips tingling, the entire side of his left arm completely numb. But he's nothing if not stubborn, so he keeps struggling. “Are you sure?” he asked, thick with the potion but still sarcastic. “They don’t really suit my outfit.” 

Before he could brace himself, Fundy smacked him with the hilt of his sword, square in his stomach. He gasped out and curled forwards, trying to protect his vulnerable middle.

Just as quick, his hair was seized and he was yanked up into a standing position. He wanted to whine from pain. “Stop fighting,” Quackity told him, digging his hand further into his hair and yanking at his scalp. “It’ll be easier like that.”) 

He presses his hand over his bandages. He can almost feel the rot spreading, but he’s sure he’s imagining that. “I’m fine,” he says, more gruff than usual. His whole body feels like it’s buzzing, and his vision is worse than usual, barely able to focus at all. His hands ache and can’t keep from shaking, entirely numb from mid-forearm to fingers. He’s in so much pain that it’s all starting to blur together. 

He’s so overwhelmed that he wants to start sobbing. 

He takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes. “Ranboo.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I need your help getting home.” His voice cracks and he covers his mouth.

He can see his quick nod out of the corner of his eye. “I can do that.” 

He tries to force himself to calm down. Empty, calm, neutral. He’s not going to break here. He just needs to keep himself in one piece for a few hours. 

When he gets home, he’s giving himself permission to break down when he needs it. _Because I almost died_ , he justifies. The voices titter with agreement.

“I can’t come with you,” Niki says, still holding his arm. “I need to get home before nighttime, and it's a pretty long trip…” 

Techno nods. “Thank you,” he says, looking away from her earnest, worried face. “I… I’d probably be dead somewhere, if it wasn’t for you.” 

She smiles, he can see it out of the corner of his eye. “You’re welcome.” She squeezes his arm. “Can I give you a hug?” 

He hesitantly lets her give him a quick embrace. She’s warm. Her hair smells like strawberries and cream, and it’s so much better than the blood, which is all he’s been able to smell all day on account of the nosebleed he got when all this started. Her sweater is soft against his bare arms. 

“Take care, Technoblade,” she says, giving him a gentle squeeze (mindful of the wound) and stepping back. “You have a comm, right? Message me when you get home, so I know you're safe.”

His face flushes despite how exhausted he is. “Yeah.” 

She adjusts her bag on her shoulder, gives the pair of hybrids a soft smile, and turns back down the path. 

Techno turns sharply and starts walking. Ranboo follows with quick steps. “It’s kind of a long walk,” he says quietly, as if he’s not sure he should be talking. “I have to take a long path so I can avoid water.” 

“I don’t care,” he says, equally quiet. “I just want to go home.”

-

“I’m burning his stupid axe,” Tommy announces with glee, picking up the abandoned weapon and inspecting it’s surface with wild eyes. “Maybe all his other stuff, too. Ohhh, this is fucking great.” He grins, only slightly manic. 

His shoulders aches enough that holding the axe is painful; it was very nearly dislocated. The bloody marks on his arm have been cleaned and wrapped up, but they still sting when he moves it. His lungs feel raw from coughing (which sucks because he was getting better in that regard) and he feels like he might have a fever again. Where Dream grabbed his bad wing aches to the point of nausea. 

He doesn’t care. The incredible rush of happiness and hysteria that he got from seeing Dream’s dead body is unexplainable. His whole body feels like it’s full of sunlight, hot and bright and painful, and he’s been shaking all morning. It feels like electricity. 

“Don’t burn all of it,” Phil advises from the kitchen, where he’s making breakfast for them. It’s not even close to noon, but he feels like he’s been awake for months. “I’m sure some of it will be useful.” He pauses, thinking briefly, tapping the counter. “Burn that damn axe, though. You’ve earned it.” 

“Hell yeah!” 

He throws the axe into the fire, watching the flames crowd around it, before going back to the pile of Dream’s things, next to the bloodstain. They’ll have to scrub that out before Techno gets back, because he’ll be very upset about it. He understands, though; he’d be very annoyed if someone killed a guy on his living room floor and then didn’t clean up the resulting bloodstain. 

“What kind of self-confident bastard carries a bunch of emeralds and shit around with him?” He asks, picking up the neatly cut gems and turning them over in his hands. “Like, he came here to kidnap me. Why the fuck did he have emeralds? Did he stop to do some light trading on the way?” 

Phil laughs, the sound enough to make him grin, and sets plates down with a very light clatter. “I don’t know. Put them up though, we’ve actually got use for them.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Tommy nods, setting them aside carefully. He’s surprised by the display of wealth in Dream’s items; the motherfucker was carrying _so_ many precious materials with him. Not just raw, either, he had a whole satchel full of golden jewelry. He sets it aside with the aims of putting it in Techno’s collection, he’s sure it’ll make him happy.

He picks up a book from the pile of things. A journal, maybe, with nothing on it’s plain cover but the same smiley face that’s on Dream’s mask. He flips it open to a random page, morbidly curious. 

Handwriting that is entirely too normal, in deep blue ink. 

_“I don’t know how long it will take, but one of these days, I’m sure I will break that kid.”_

It’s all he sees before he snaps it closed so hard he flinches. His chest hurts. 

He carries it to the fire and throws it in. He sits in front of it to watch it burn. The axe is burning slowly, it’s handle barely affected and the blade only covered in soot, but the book goes up in seconds, the flames devouring the paper and the leather binding. He stares at it for a long moment, transfixed by the destruction.

“Come on, food’s ready,” Phil calls. Like this, there’s little sign of the vicious warrior who killed a man without so much as flinching. Now, he just looks… normal. A tired father making breakfast for his son, still in his pajamas, eyes lined with exhaustion but with a light smile on his face. He’s always been able to go between those extremes so quickly. 

( _“You get your goddamn hands off my son,”_ Phil grabbed the other man by the wrist and shoved him back, almost effortlessly sweeping the three of them behind him. 

“Wil, are you okay?” Tommy asked, worried by his older brother’s bloodied nose. 

He dabbed at the blood with the sleeve of his shirt. “Uh, I think so. He only got me with his elbow.” He tilted his head back, aiming to stop the bleeding.

“Don’t do that,” Techno warned. “You’ll choke. Lean forward instead.”

The two older men finish their whispered conversation, the stranger who took Wilbur for a thief looking shaken and Phil looking furious, yet pleased with himself. 

He turned around to his sons, and they only saw the former expression for a moment, before it collapsed into concern.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone for so long here,” he worried, voice getting soft as he pulled a cloth from his pocket and got to work cleaning the blood from Wilbur’s face. “Let’s get what we came here for and go home, yeah?”)

Today is a _weird_ fucking day, but aren’t they all?

Tommy gets up from the floor and goes to the table. He sits in the same chair he always does-- closest to his bed, farthest from the door-- and rests his chin on his hand. “What do you think happened to Techno? Why were they taking him away like that?” 

The blood didn’t really surprise him, when he saw the scene outside. Techno being bloody is as natural as anything else. It had been just how rough everyone was being with his older brother, even Tubbo; it felt so wrong, almost gratuitous, a group of armored men taking on someone in nothing but simple clothing… 

“It looked like he was being arrested… I knew it’d happen eventually, he has a habit of getting himself into that kind of thing, but I didn’t think it would happen here. Figured he’d wander off like he does sometimes and they’d find him, but…” 

As he talks, Phil sets a plate down in front of him and kisses the top of his head. It makes him feel like a kid again, and he grins despite himself. (Sue him, he likes affection and undivided attention, even when they’re talking about the _favorite_ .) “I think he’s fine, though. I checked the comms, he hasn’t died, and he’s _more_ than capable of getting himself out of prison.” 

Tommy shrugs, grabbing a fork and taking a bite of his eggs. He isn’t really hungry, but he knows he needs to eat. It’s an everyday struggle. “That’s good. I just… he was all bloody, and that potion, and…” He shudders at the memory of the sight, feeling very exposed and cold in his borrowed pajamas.

Even slightly distanced from the commotion and wrapped up in his own horrible situation, he can remember the fear he saw in Techno’s eyes, wide and almost luminous. The malicious grin on Tubbo’s face as he poured the potion into his mouth, the liquid bright in the sunrise. Quackity holding a handful of Techno’s hair, leather glove entangled in the strands, axe resting against his side. Fundy hovering with his own weapon in hand, having handed off the poison. Ranboo, off to the side, looking lost. 

All his friends, seeming to be united in the goal of taking Technoblade down. Did they even know Tommy was there? Would they care, if they did? What has Dream been telling them about where he is? Ranboo knows the truth, but he was sworn to secrecy, under threat of Techno’s retribution. 

He reaches up to his chest to touch his compass, running a finger over the inscription on it’s side. He rarely removes it; he even wears it to bed. It’s part of him by now, so accepted he often forgets its there.

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Phil assures him with complete confidence, sitting across from him. “Techno’s gotten himself out of worse situations before.” 

\--

Techno hasn’t felt this much pain in years. Possibly ever, actually. He’d try to deduce when he could have felt worse, if his brain didn’t feel like someone had scooped out part of it and replaced it with lava. He has a horrible headache, and the fact that the voices are screaming insults (and have been since the execution) doesn’t help. 

They’re finally in the snow, though. That’s good, that means they aren’t all too far away from his cabin. The cold air feels good against his overly warm skin. He feels like he might be running a fever, likely from the potions, but it’s been so long that he can’t really remember how it feels. He’ll ask when he gets home. 

“Not far now,” Ranboo comments lightly. “How are you feeling?” 

He gives a dismissive huff. It’s not as angry as he’d hoped for. “It hurts,” he says flatly. Breathing is starting to feel like an ordeal. He wonders just _how_ broken his ribs are. 

“That… makes sense,” he nods, obviously nervous. Usually, Techno would feel proud of the fear he inspires, but he’s too tired to care right now. He doesn’t feel very terrifying at the moment, anyway. Mostly, he feels tired and kind of gross. “Y’know, they intended for the anvil to fall on your head and crush you to death.”

“Really.”

“Yeah! So… um. It could be much worse!” 

“That helps, Ranboo. Absolutely.” 

The teenager gives him a bright smile, before seeming to realize he’s being sarcastic. His expression falls. “Oh, um… is there anything I can do to help?” He fiddles with his tail again. “Probably not, I don’t have any potions or anything, but--” 

“Unless you know how to stop my body from slowly rottin’ away, no.” Ranboo flinches minutely at the words. He feels a flicker of happiness at how dry he can be even though he’s literally falling apart. “How much further?”

His legs feel like lead. He got up entirely too early for this. Couldn’t they have scheduled this execution better? They would have had to get up incredibly early to arrive just after dawn. 

~~He’s still on the verge of tears.~~

“Um…” Ranboo steps over a moderately tall snowbank, making a small annoyed noise when his legs brush the wet snow. “Not far? Maybe about another half hour or so of walking.” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “I should’ve grabbed my coat.” 

_At least you have a shirt_ , he thinks. He’s completely sure that if it wasn’t for his genetics, he’d be frozen to the core by now. He tugs his cloak in closer to his body. 

He wonders how things are going back in the cabin. Surely, they drove Dream away. Maybe even killed him. Whatever wounds that were sustained have been cleaned and bandaged. Tommy is crying, likely, but Tommy cries a lot.

 _But what if they didn’t drive him away?_ He’s not sure where the thought comes from, but it makes him feel colder. _What if Dream took Tommy away again? What if he killed Phil?_

He swallows. That can’t be the case. He’d be able to _feel_ it if Phil died, it’s just not possible for him to _not_. And besides, he carries a totem as well, he’s not stupid. He’s still alive. And Tommy is still at home, probably laying in bed, trying to recover from the scare but perfectly okay otherwise. They’re both fine. 

~~They have to be. It’s the only thing he can cling to.~~

-

“I should’ve grabbed my coat,” Ranboo says, shoving his hands into his suit jacket’s pockets. The cool air bites at his exposed cheeks and the tip of his nose. _And maybe my mask too_ , he thinks with a wince. 

Techno huffs quietly next to him, but doesn’t otherwise reply. He’s not very talkative in general, he’s noticed; even when he came to visit Tommy and spent a few hours there, he’s never heard more than a few sentences from him. It wouldn’t bother him if the older hybrid didn’t put him so on edge. 

Not in a bad way, he can just tell… something’s up with him. He can tell he thinks a lot, just like him. But he seems nice enough. It could just be his injuries right now, though, because he’s remarkably docile. 

The guilt he feels for being so _complicit_ in the execution is so heavy it drags him down, making his shoulders ache and his tail and ears droop. 

Sure, Technoblade can be dangerous, especially from all the things his friends told him about what he’s done and his reputation, he’s not going to argue with that. But capturing and executing him? Without letting him even say a word in his own defense? All after drugging him to the point of being unable to fight, with that scary-strong weakness potion Fundy made? It felt so wrong. 

Techno hasn’t been anything but generally polite to him. Sure, he’s a bit standoffish and keeps to himself, but he’s not mean and hasn’t shown any signs of wanting to hurt him, barring how he tried to fight him when they first met. 

And that was completely justified, since he did show up out of nowhere at his house. 

He let him into his house despite not really trusting him, and he seems so nice to Tommy, which is good to see. He wasn’t at all surprised when he learned they’re brothers, not with how Techno is so gentle with him and how Tommy looks at him with pure adoration. 

He shivers again. He doesn’t know how Techno isn’t complaining, shirtless and with his pants torn up. He’s obviously cold; his nose and cheeks are all red, along with his sound ear. He looks awful, really, with blood-spotted bandages wrapped around his torso, a scrape along his jaw and cheek bloody and edged with rot, one ear similarly ripped...

The guilt gets heavier. He sighs and hugs himself, pressing his arms in close to his body to try and keep warm. The snow on the ground is sinking into his pants, and it’s making his skin itch. _Oh_ , he’s going to have blisters. At least he made sure to grab boots instead of his dress shoes...

“Why are you helpin’ me?” Techno asks abruptly, arms crossed over his own chest, walking with his eyes on the snow. 

Ranboo feels his brows furrow, and he hugs himself. “Oh… well, I really do feel bad about what happened? You’ve been nice to me, and you’ve been taking care of Tommy… and he’s about the only friend I have anymore.” 

He winces at the thought of how alone he’s become in such a short period of time. He didn’t expect such isolation when he got here… “And, uhm. When the anvil hit you, it really looked like it _hurt_ , so I felt awful that you’d have to walk all the way home like that… I figured I would help…” His eyes flicker over the scrape on his cheek, his ear, the bandages. 

“Gotta say, I don’t like your pity.” His mouth curls with a light sneer, upper lip curling away from sharp teeth. There’s faint blood stains on them-- did he bite someone? Ranboo can’t recall, but with how wild he was for a short time, he wouldn’t put it past him. It’s completely reasonable. “I could’ve made it home fine.”

“I’m sure you could,” he agrees. “You seem very capable. I don’t pity you… I want to help. Genuinely.”

He huffs again, staring at the snow like it personally wronged him. “Why did you help them?” 

He cups his elbows and brings his arms in close. He feels small. “I’m not very good at saying no to people. And… I don’t know if you noticed, but they’re… _scary_. At least to me, they are.” 

He thinks about Tubbo’s uneven footsteps, how the smell of whiskey hangs heavy around him as the days get later, how often he snaps at people. How he slams doors and snarls when he’s angry. How the littlest thing makes him cry.

(How he's terrified to tell him that Tommy's not actually missing, because he's fairly sure it will do _something_ to him.)

He thinks about Quackity’s hitlist. Fundy’s craving for acceptance to the point of allowing atrocious things to happen. Threats given _just_ casually enough that they have plausible deniability. 

(“Don’t make me push you into the lake, Ranboo."

"Don’t look at me like that! It was a joke!”)

The hesitation in Niki’s face whenever he leaves after visiting her. Her hand wrapped around his arm, her voice soft, “tell me if anything happens, okay?”

They… _technically_ help with his memory. They all tell him things that happened, but it gives no sense of comfort; it’s… he hesitates to say manipulation, but a bit of _selfishness_ , on their part. It often contradicts his memory book, or other things he’s written down. Like when they told him he promised to help in the execution. He wouldn’t do that; it seemed so grisly… 

And it was. 

(“Are you sure this is… justified?” He asked quietly, leaning down next to Tubbo. “I mean… this seems too violent.” 

The president hummed. His eyes are red. “Ranboo, it’s only fair, considering his crimes. _He’s_ violent.” He raised his hand to touch the scar across his face.)

“You helped execute me... because of peer pressure?” Techno asks for clarification, brows raised. Something on his expression is strange. 

Ranboo leans down, hunching down into his own arms. “...yeah, I guess that’s what happened.” Shame threatens to drown him at the confession. He’s such a fucking pushover. A living doormat, unable to put up the most prefunctory argument--

He laughs abruptly, the sound rough and painful even to his ears. “Alright, I can’t fault you for that. Bit hypocritical of me.” He kicks a snowy rock out of the way. He doesn’t know what that means, but at least he’s not angry.

Silence settles again. He fiddles with his gloves and pulls at the buttons on the wrists-- he’ll need to fix them soon, since they’re getting loose again. Because of his fidgeting, he’s sure. 

“I don’t hate you,” Techno says, still looking at the snow. “You’re a kid. I’m not in the business of hating teenagers for no reason.” 

He frowns and looks down at him, brows furrowing. “But you _have_ a reason. We just established that I was peer pressured into helping _kill you_.”

He chuckles very lowly and uncrosses his arms, fiddling with the leather bracers he’s wearing around his wrists. “I mean, yeah. But again, you’re a kid; I don’t really blame you for giving into pressure.” He glances up with a very slight smile, nothing more than a crooked twitch of lips.

His face feels hot and his tail flicks. “Oh, uh-- that’s nice, then. And I’m… not scared of you, nor do I want you to die.” He smiles weakly, intertwining his fingers. “You seem… friendly.” His mouth spreads in an involuntary smile when he laughs again, less rough and more genuine. 

“I’m not, but thank you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> go drink some water. this is not a request, this is a threat 🔪 /lh
> 
> i suck at answering comments, though i read all of them and try to reply sometimes! if you have any questions and/or want a higher chance of me replying, i'm very ( _disgustingly_ , really) active on my tumblr, which is the same username as here :-)
> 
> additional note: is there anything else i should tag for this fic? i think what's in the tags now is servicable and covers everything, but im also very, incredibly stupid, so if you think i missed something, please tell me :-)
> 
> have a good day!


	12. so if you figure it out, tell me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter kicked my ass and idk why. why is writing this way. my perfectionism wants me to Not post this but i am going to do it anyway because fuck that guy. i write for me and not that asshole
> 
> its so very cold where i live, my whole body is freezing and i can't go outside bc of the snow and i am sad, so i am In The Correct Mood, i suppose. we have a lot of perspectives again, and some!! sad times!!
> 
> the timeline and pacing doesn't quite make sense here and that's fine. time isn't real we all know this
> 
> title from la jolla by wilbur soot

By noon, Tommy crashes, quite literally.

He doesn't realize it's happening until it does-- he's sitting in Techno's armchair, trying to read one of his books out of a morbid curiosity of what captivates his attention, when he falls forward and nearly out of the chair. He's lightheaded and suddenly so, very sleepy. His eyes can't seem to stay open.

"Oh," he mumbles to himself. "Alright. Naptime, then." He laughs self-consciously and gets up from the chair, gingerly. He needs to put the book away before he lays down. That's easy, the bookshelf is just a few steps to the left. Easy, it'll take a second. 

He steps behind the armchair, walking to the bookshelf. He's a little wobbly, but he makes it, setting the book back in its place (trying not to disrupt Techno's not-organization too much) and then turning towards the bed. The wooden floor feels so hard under his sock feet. 

_Okay, Tommy. Walk to your bed and lay down. Also very easy._

Three steps in, he gets a wave of dizziness and falls to the floor, sprawling out on his stomach. He curses viciously, enough that he even makes himself blush, and drags himself up on a chair. 

_What the fuck is up with you, TommyInnit?_

"What happened?" Phil asks, just coming in the door. He had gone outside to check around the house. (He hadn't said it, but Tommy's sure he was looking for any sign of what's happening to Techno.) 

"I fell," he mumbles in response, clinging to the chair for stability. "I feel like shit." 

"You probably overdid it a little today. You're still not totally healthy..." Phil comes over and takes his arm, carefully supporting him and leading him to bed. "Lay down, you need rest."

He's not about to argue with that; he untucks his blankets and wraps himself up in them, letting his body be cradled by his nest. Safe, warm. Good. 

He brushes his fingers through his hair, familiar. “You have a fever again,” he says. “It’s been a while since you had one…” 

He lets out a deep sigh. “Dream fucks everything up, doesn’t he,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “I was getting better…”

“I’m sorry I didn’t help you sooner,” he says, a troubled frown on his face. “I didn’t… realize what was going on, I was…” He trails off, his hand stilling in Tommy’s hair. 

He gives a lazy shrug and leans into his hand. “‘s okay. You were worried about Techno.” He yawns. “You got him away before he could do anything bad to me. I’m not mad at you.” His words are a little slurred, and he’s shivering. “Not now, anyway. Lemme think about it.” 

Phil chuckles and keeps petting him, gentle as ever. “That’s fair. You can think about it all you need.” 

His eyes flutter closed, and he snuggles himself further into the blankets. He feels heavy. “Don’t leave,” he mumbles. 

“Never again. I’m right here.” 

(When he wakes up a few hours later, he's bounced back to his borderline mania. Phil keeps his reservations about his mood to himself.)

\--

Really, Techno’s surprised they made it this far without issue. 

He recognizes this area, dimly; they’re not far from the house at all. 

He’s getting dizzy. Not from blood loss, probably, but likely because he’s crashing, practically falling apart. His thoughts feel thick and barely coherent. 

It sucks, if he’s being completely honest. He can’t feel the pain anymore, he’s too cold and heavy with exhaustion and what just might be an actual, genuine sensory overload (goddammit he’s too old for this) but he can feel the uncomfortable scrape of the bandages against his wounds, the sensitive skin of his sides and stomach. 

“Almost there,” Ranboo says, reaching over to touch his arm and try to get his attention. “Please don’t pass out, I’m not sure I can carry you.” 

He snorts halfheartedly and keeps plodding along. The snow is thicker here, and his boots keep catching. He really doesn’t want to fall. If he falls, he’s not getting up. 

“Tell me, how’s Tommy been doing?” Ranboo asks a little louder, obviously attempting to keep Techno awake. “I haven’t been by in a few days.” 

He shakes his head lightly. His throat feels dry and talking seems… hard. “He’s okay,” he says, voice growling. “Been gettin’ better. His ankle’s mostly healed up, and...” he swallows thickly, trying to voice some of the growl from his voice. “Uh… he’s been outside more. He went huntin’ with Phil the other day, it made him really happy…” 

He nearly trips in the snow, and Ranboo catches him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to stabilize him. “That’s good,” he says, genuinely happy. “I wonder if he’ll be awake when we get there. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.” 

He nods idly, leaning into his side in a bid to stay on his feet. “Think he’ll be mad,” he mumbles. “Phil, I mean. Gonna be worried.” His tongue is loose with the exhaustion and thick fog through his thoughts; he’s being very honest. “I keep scarin’ him…” 

“I don’t think he’ll be mad at you for getting _arrested_ ,” Ranboo says kindly. “And if he does, I’ll take all the blame. It _is_ partially my fault.” He helps him around a particularly tall snowbank, wincing slightly as his legs brush it. “Ow.” 

He yawns so hard his vision swims. “Does the snow hurt you?” He asks, slow and drowsy but full of curiosity. 

“Hm? Oh, yeah! It stings more than anything else.” He shrugs and shakes the snow off his pantleg. “It’s not that bad.” 

“That sounds painful,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with a heavy hand. His chest feels tight, but not with emotion or anything, just the numbed pain. 

“It’s really not,” he gives a light laugh. “You’ve got it worse, you start rotting sometimes. I’d rather get blisters from water than do that.” 

Techno scrunches up his nose. “Oh, yeah. Th-that’s not good, you’re right.” He was trying to forget that. His wound feels itchy from the rot, and so does his jaw. “Used to that, though.” He almost trips, and clings to the tall teenager’s side. 

Ranboo laughs again, holding his shoulders a little more securely to keep him from falling. “I suppose you do get used to stuff like that,” he says, still light. “We’re almost there, don’t worry.”

He nods in acknowledgment, growling along with it. He’s starting not to want to talk; noises are easier. (Vaguely, he’s aware that that is a very bad sign, in terms of where he is emotionally.) 

By the time he catches sight of the house, it’s beginning to snow, and his eyes won’t stay open. He’s relying too much on Ranboo to keep on his feet, clinging to his waist, arms wrapped tightly around him. He doesn’t seem to mind, holding him securely against him. He seems more distracted by how the snowflakes fall onto his arms and head. 

“Ow, ow,” he mumbles. “That’s not great. Can you try and walk faster?” 

He sounds a tiny bit impatient, but Techno supposes that makes sense. He tries to steady his feet and walk more quickly, but he can’t really achieve it very well. He shakes his head lightly against his shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Can’t go any faster.” 

He’s dragged along, his feet catching in the heavy, wet snow. The falling powder isn’t any more than a few flakes, but it’s so cold. 

He supposes he misses some time, distracted by his unbalanced steps and the snow falling onto his exposed ears (cold…) but they’re suddenly at the porch steps. 

“Come on,” Ranboo says gently, pulling him by the arm up the stairs. “Just a few more steps. Please don’t pass out on me.” 

Techno jolts at the realization his mind had skipped, and he starts clumsily climbing the staircase, clinging to his arm. It’s hard, and he almost falls, but he’s pulled to the door regardless. His feet feel like lead and his toes are cold, numb. He tries to force his fuzzy brain into focusing.

Ranboo knocks on the door, before just turning the knob and dragging him through. 

It doesn’t register to either of them that that’s probably a bad idea until they’re in the living area, both wet with snow and clinging to eachother. 

He can vaguely hear the drawing of a sword, footsteps. He regards these sounds with idle curiosity. 

“You have a few seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doing here.” Philza’s voice is all icy, sharp like steel. He kind of likes the sound. 

“Uh,” Ranboo’s voice is much higher than usual, and his back is very stiff. “I brought Techno home…?”

“Hellooo,” Techno mumbles, waving a weak hand. “I’m back.” He pries his eyes open, and observes (with the same idle curiosity) at how Phil had a sword leveled at Ranboo’s throat. “Don’t kill him,” he adds. 

“Fuck,” Phil’s voice is soft but heavy with meaning, and he snaps out of his anger to lower his sword and turn to him, inspecting his wounded son. “What happened to you, mate? Your _face--_ ” 

“I got executed,” Techno says abruptly. His words are slurred, but his mind is clearing up. “Dropped an anvil on me.” 

He blinks. “I see.” No softness, now. “Alright, that’s-- we’ll deal with that later. You’re obviously feeling horrible, sit down-- how long did you have to walk?” 

He’s tugged to the table, where he’s promptly sat down and stripped of his cloak. He’s too out of it to argue, cold and tired as he is. He feels vaguely like he’s floating, barely tethered to reality, no matter how hard he tries to focus his thoughts.

“Like… three and a half hours,” Ranboo informs shakily. “It would’ve been quicker if we went by water, but…” 

Phil nods, distracted from his anger, as he inspects the scrapes along Techno’s cheek and jaw. “It’d be too much to hope that your face is the only rot, huh?” 

He nods, leaning into his hand. “Ribs, too. Broken, some of 'em, and…” he yawns and then flinches as something _pinches_ inside of him. “Rottin’ pretty bad, around where it happened.” 

“I don’t know how you haven’t gone into shock yet,” Ranboo murmurs. “You… I can tell how much pain you’re in…”

“‘m used to it,” he mumbles, leaning forward to rest his head against Phil’s chest as he looks over his torn ear. “Not the first time this’s happened to me, kid.” He closes his eyes, comforted by the fact that he’s home and safe. He doesn’t have to be nearly as on guard now; he trusts Phil to keep him safe. 

The tension begins to bleed out of his shoulders. 

“First time in a while, though,” Phil adds quietly. “Tommy, come over here. I think I’m going to need your help.” 

Tommy comes over, apprehension on his face. He doesn’t seem to know where to look-- the rot on his face, his wild hair, how he’s all but sinking into their father’s arms like a tired child. “Yeah. What can I do?” 

“Just… make sure he doesn’t fall. I have to go down and grab some potions. I really hope this’ll still work the same way it did before…” He steps back, and against himself, against all desire to seem mature and strong, Techno whines lowly and tries to grab his arm, to pull him back. “Tech, I’ll give you a hug when you’re no longer _rotting_ , alright?” 

“Come back,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering open just enough to see his worried expression. “Didn’t walk for three hours to get home and not get a hug.”

“I’ll give you a hug,” Tommy offers. That seems like an acceptable deal, so Techno allows himself to be tugged into his arms. “Oh, you’re… really hot. More than usual.” 

He shrugs. “S’ fine. I feel it, but it's fine.” 

He pushes back his hair, mindful of the tangled state, and looks his face over. “Dude, you look _awful_.” 

He blinks, laughing almost silently. “I’ve had a rough day...” _And I used a totem of undying, who knows what that did to me in this state._ “I've had too many potions…” He brushes his fingers over the bandages around his torso. Most of them have at least a little blood seeping through. “Suppose I’ll sleep pretty well after all of this is over. Might not wake up for days…” 

“...that’s not a good thing,” Tommy says, a nervous grin on his face. He looks just as tired as he is, and his face is flushed. “What did they give you? When they were taking you away, I mean…” 

“I know it was weakness, but… whatever else is anyone’s guess,” he yawns again, not even having the energy to flinch when his insides flare with pain. (It’s probably not good that he’s starting to go numb to it.) “I’m still kind of feelin’ it.” 

“This is a bad time to tell you that you need to drink another, isn’t it?” Phil says, on the very edge of being casual. He sets a few supplies out on the table. “Hopefully it still works on you. I told you more than once, using as many potions as you have--” 

“--is _detrimental to my future_ , yeah, I remember,” Techno opens his eyes just to roll them, taking the offered potion. “I think it’ll still work.” 

“Again, _hopefully_. Eat this, too.” He hands over a golden apple, which manages to make him sit up, eyes going wide. 

Between how actually _hungry_ he is and the fact that he knows it’ll help, he’s ridiculously excited. 

He sinks his teeth into the gilded fruit and lets out a low, happy growl, leaning back in his chair. God, it’s never tasted or felt better, the rush of regeneration magic and the sweet metallic taste of both the apple and the gold… 

“...never seen him that happy,” Ranboo says quietly to Tommy. 

He doesn’t bother to crack his eyes open and glare at them, taking another bite. He doesn’t even want to drink the potion; this feels like it’ll fix everything, will chase the pain and the rot and the fuzzy feeling of despair he’s had all day.

But he knows how this works. Reluctantly, he drinks down the overly-sweet potion. For some reason, it makes the tiniest bit of that panicky despair rise in his stomach, as the weakness makes him slump down in his chair, sinking against Tommy’s shoulder for stability and ~~why not admit it?~~ safety. 

(He was literally drugged earlier that day, so. That might explain it.) 

( _don’t rest don’t rest not safe not even here Dream butchers potions danger danger danger_ )

“I remember why I stopped takin’ potions so much,” he mumbles, placing the empty bottle on the table. “I can feel myself crashin’.” He’s trembling, the usual affect of the method, but it’s never any less scary.

“I can see it happening,” Phil agrees. He’s taking his braces off his unoccupied hand, and washing the blood off his skin. “Who patched you up? I know you don’t carry bandages, and I’d guess they took everything you had.” 

He takes another bite of his apple, offering his other hand to be cleaned. “Niki helped me,” he says, a little too softly. After a moment's hesitation, he adds in a shaking voice, “she said we’re friends.”

“That’s nice of her,” he says, setting his braces aside to be cleaned up later, and moving onto the bandages around his chest. “Did she help you get out?” 

He nods, forcing his eyes to stay open. He doesn’t want to fall asleep and have to be carried to bed; he’s not sure any of them are strong enough to move him. “She was really helpful… she said she wants to take down L’manberg, which is nice,” he hums, smiling weakly. “Maybe I’ll help her…” 

The kids both laugh next to him. Phil smiles, but there’s deep concern in the tilt of his brows. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate the help.” He pulls away the bandages, and seemingly can’t help but make a noise of despair. “Shit. That’s _bad_.” 

Techno glances down at the rotting-edged wound. Horror goes through him at the sight. 

The rot has retreated slightly, the green much less spread out, but now he can see all the bloodied flesh and torn muscle and the white glint of broken bones.

It breaks him a little. He swallows a heartbroken sob, raising a hand to grip at his father’s arm. His weak hand is trembling. 

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, resting a hand on his undamaged shoulder and rubbing at his collarbone with his thumb. “I can help, okay? I’ve done it before, and you’ve always been fine.”

His eyes feel hot with tears and he stares at his wound. “I-I didn’t realize it was that bad…” 

“Well, someone dropped an _anvil_ on you, Tech, it’s going to be bad,” he raises his hand to pet back his hair briefly. “I’ll get you cleaned up, and then you can sleep for a bit. You look exhausted.” 

He nods slowly, slowly letting go of his arm and instead fiddling with a fraying thread on his pants. “I need a bath...” he mumbles. “‘n my hair’s all messed up…” his eyes close and he feels vaguely flustered when tears slide down his cheeks, stinging a scrape along his jaw.

“I’ll comb your hair before you sleep,” he assures softly. “And you can take a bath tomorrow. I think you’d just pass out if you tried now.” 

He groans, but it’s probably true. 

Silence settles as he inspects the wound, brows furrowed deeply as he tries to discern the severity. Techno has to look away, something like guilt climbing up his throat. 

“Well… it’s not the worst I’ve seen on you,” he says, starting to clean the wound gently. It both hurts and feels amazing, depending on what it touches; it was the same way when Niki cleaned him up. “Though that’s a high bar.”

He nods drowsily. Even this isn’t as bad as his wounds when they first met-- well, _presumably_. He has very little memory of that, past the initial contact with that damned wither skeleton. “At least I’m not withered.” 

“Exactly. I don’t think my heart could take it, honestly.” Phil squeezes his shoulder with a very light laugh. “It looks like you were lucky, actually. Your ribs are all fucked up, I think most of them on this side are broken, but it doesn’t look like there’s any major internal damage. No punctured organs or anything.” 

“Yay,” he says, tired and thick with tears. 

“Why are you rotting, anyway?” Tommy asks, sitting in one of the other chairs and having broken away from an unusually quiet conversation with Ranboo. They both look particularly tense. “That’s… kind of terrifying, if I’m being honest, and you two just seem to be accepting it.” 

Techno’s eyes flutter closed and he leans forward on Phil’s shoulder again. “Piglin blood,” he mumbles. “Get really hurt and it starts rottin’. I don’t know how it works.” 

“It’s always been like that,” Phil adds. “That’s why I’m not freaking out about it right now.” 

“...I think you’re freaking out a _little_ ,” Tommy laughs, the sound faint. “I am.” 

“You’re also in a very fragile state right now,” he counters.

Techno lets the words sit for a moment, before sitting up far too aggressively and looking around. Terror sinks into his stomach and his hands twitch, looking for anything to fight with; sword, axe, knife, bat... “What happened with Dream? This morning, I know I _saw_ him…” Pain arcs through his body and he bites down a sob of agony. “He didn’t-- did he hurt you, Tommy?” 

“He tried,” Tommy says, voice softer. He seems to become small in an instant, hugging himself loosely. “Phil killed him before he could really do anything.” 

The voices scream their approval so loudly that he has to laugh to try and not join them, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Really?” He asks, barely hearing himself over the victorious screeches of his father’s name and various other cheers. At least they’re done insulting him for now.

Phil makes an agreeing sound, grabbing fresh bandages and winding them around his torso. “He deserved it. Don’t even get me started.”

“Oh, that explains that message, then,” Ranboo adds, voice a little faint. “None of us knew who could’ve killed Dream, we haven’t seen him in days, nobody had any idea where he was.” He pauses. “Why was he here, anyway?” 

Tommy absentmindedly picks at his wing, ruffling the odd misaligned feather. “No clue,” he says, voice flat. “It’s not important, really. He’s dead and we’re free from his bullshit for a few days.” He gets up from his chair and walks to the bookshelf, his back to them.

Techno smiles softly despite his concern and the buzz of hysteria from the voices, and raises his better arm to pat Phil’s shoulder. “So you’ve still got it, huh.” 

“Was it ever in question?” He asks lightly. “Sit _still_ , Tech, I need to get these--” Tommy makes a vaguely choking sound. He winces. “Sorry, I… forgot.”

“No! No, it’s fine, I just-- you weren’t even talking to me, ha…” His voice is a few pitches too high. He places a book back on the shelf. “Ranboo, how about we go downstairs? We can go through the chests or something. I… think we should leave them alone.”

Ranboo glances between all three of them, playing with the end of his tail again. “...okay,” he nods, and follows Tommy down the ladder.

The lightness drains from the room with them, and Techno feels as if he’s being scolded before Phil even opens his mouth. 

“So. _Executed_ , huh.” He says, moving on to clean his face. “Mind telling me how you got out of that one?” 

He closes his eyes against the cool disapproval on his face. “I used a totem.” 

“ _Technoblade_.” 

“You and I both know they’re safe as long as you’re not stupid about them--” 

“Every time you use one of those, they take a little bit from you!” Phil snaps back, pulling away and briefly curling his hands into fists at his sides. Techno’s mouth goes dry at the anger on his face and he has half a mind to cover himself. He’s only stopped by his aching wounds and heavy limbs. “And there’s not much left of you for it to _take_ , Techno. It’s not safe for you to do that anymore.”

He looks down at his lap again and his tail twitches against the back of the chair. He feels like he’s a kid again, getting scolded for starting fights or endangering their home. 

“Doesn’t that mean it’s not safe for you, either?” He asks, folding his arms over his bandaged middle. His vision is blurry, though what from, he still can’t tell. Everything feels slow, which means Phil’s anger is sinking into him like the world’s worst poison. “You’ve used them more than I have.”

(Phil rarely gets angry like that. Not at his sons, at least. He's seen him well and truly enraged, but it's very rarely been directed at him or his brothers. It hurts.)

“I’m well aware that it’s dangerous for me, and I haven’t needed one in a while,” his voice is sharp with anger, and it makes him want to cry, for some odd reason. Today has been one of those days, he supposes. He already gave himself permission to cry, so he lets the tears free, dripping down his face, almost unnoticed. “But-- Techno, you’re smarter than this. I don't want you to end up like me. Dying would’ve been… easier--”

He looks up, eyes wide, blinking quickly to try and banish the tears. The anger flickers inside of him, quickly swallowed by his misery. “Easier?” he asks, voice strange and not quite his own. “Forgive me for not wanting a bunch of maniacs to _kill me_ , Phil.” It’s not as biting as he hopes, his words thick with tears and his breathing ragged. “They _drugged_ me and dragged me around by my _hair_ and tried to _crush_ me, I didn’t want to give them the _satisfaction_ of-- of--” 

He chokes briefly as it hits him, just how awful the situation is. Sure, he realized it was fucked up, but it settles on him, so heavy it drags him down. 

He sinks down in his chair with a low whine and tears begin to trail down his cheeks, stinging his wound and making it hard to breathe. 

His ears pin against his head and his tail coils around his leg. Everything hurts and the voices are screaming at him for showing such vulnerability, even in front of someone he trusts. 

He feels small and scared and _oh god he can’t do this anymore_. 

“I know it would be easier,” he whispers, voice a little high and hysterical, the edge of a _laugh_ in it. “I… you wouldn’t have to deal with this, I wouldn’t be hurt, I...”

Phil makes a low, worried noise, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Techno, I-- I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry.” He pulls him into a gentle embrace, hugging him securely against his chest. “It wouldn’t have been easier. I shouldn’t have…” He trails off. 

He tries to swallow around his tears, pushing his face against his shoulder. “I didn’t want to _die_ , not like that,” he whispers, still choked with laughter. “I couldn’t even fight, I-I touched my _ribs_ , I felt— _helpless._ ”

(Every blow they gave him seems to return. Cruel eyes and even crueler hands. Sharp words. 

More than one demeaning comment about his nature, which he thought was a little funny, considering the fact that not one person in that little party is human.)

He pets his tangled hair and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I-- I thought about going outside, and helping you… but Tommy was in a bad situation too, and I had to help him--” 

“You always go after me,” he mumbles against his shirt. “And he _knows_ that. It’s okay.” 

“I saw it happen, through the window,” he continues petting his hair, voice getting weak as he keeps talking. “I saw you try to go for the house, and how they kept pulling you back-- how you screamed for me…” He holds him closer, pressing his face against the top of his head. “God, I’m so sorry.” 

He clings to his back, throwing all sense of pride out the window as tears continue to flow from his eyes, sobs choking him. He wants to say something, _anything_ , but he can’t stop crying. He hasn’t let himself cry like this in so long. 

(It had to be when he learned Wilbur was dead, right? It broke him for a good two days, during which he had done little but cry through all his chores and tasks. 

That was a few months ago. Wasn't it? Time seems to stretch so far.) 

“It’s okay,” Phil soothes, kissing his forehead and leaving his lips resting against his skin. “You’re home now. You’re safe.” 

Techno whimpers on a sob, or maybe a scream. He crumbles completely, wrapping his arms tightly around Phil and pushing his face further into his shoulder, hiding his misery. Shame fills him up to his head, making him feel like he’s drowning. 

The voices fall quiet, not insulting anymore, only the occasional murmuring of _it’s okay_ and _Dadza can take care of you_ and _poor, poor Techno..._

“You’re okay,” he soothes again, scratching the back of his ear gently. His wings are gently draped around him like a heavy blanket. “Shhh. You’re going to be okay, Techno.” 

He sobs and grips onto his shirt, tears soaking into the fabric. Everything feels fuzzy and he’s so tired, so _small_. He just wants to go to bed. 

“I wanna go to sleep,” he slurs out through tears, barely intelligible. Talking aches. 

“Okay,” Phil murmurs softly. “Let’s get you to bed, then. Do you want to sleep down here, or do you want to go upstairs?” 

Being presented with a choice makes his head hurt even worse, but the loft has a distinct advantage; more privacy. And also Marnie. 

“Upstairs,” he mumbles. 

He’s gently helped to his feet. Vaguely, he recalls being sick as a child, and being led to bed like this. Was it during the winter? It had to be, because that was the only time he ever got sick back then. 

He’s not sure how they make it up the ladder, but within moments he’s sat down gently on the edge of his bed, his boots being untied. 

His eyes slip closed. _I can rest now_ , he informs himself softly. _I’m safe. Very safe_. 

He’s tucked under his blankets. He’s never felt more comforted by heavy wool and soft pillows. 

“You haven’t had a fever in a long time,” Phil says, running a comb through his hair now. It’s spread out over the pillows and the ends of his bangs, still kind of bloody, tickle his face. It makes him want to laugh.

Techno wants to nod in acknowledgement, but moving sounds like it’s impossible. He just mumbles instead, not even words, barely even human.

“Go to sleep,” he encourages gently, lifting his hair to work out a tangle. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

He finds the energy to yawn, pulling his arms close to his chest under the blankets. Something’s not right, though. He manages to crack an eye open. 

Marnie is sitting next to the bed, her plush head tilted at him almost disapprovingly. He lets out an incoherent whine and stares at the plush with dismay. 

“Hm?” Phil notices his distress, and follows his gaze. “Oh! Yeah, here you go.” He picks Marnie up and hands her over. 

Techno summons a monumental amount of effort to raise his arms and grab her, pulling her soft plush body to his chest. 

(He’s had this specific plush for… god only _knows_ how long. She was a gift from Wilbur, while the older was going through a phase of being “too old” for toys. Techno, who was around ten at the time, had never really had any toys, so he had clung to the fluffy, pink little pig from then on. 

And he never really let go of her, to be honest. Even as he got older, she was one of his prized possessions. A comfort item, up there with his crown and his old cape. Just… something that makes him feel as good as he did during his childhood. 

Marnie looks as well loved as she is; her fur is a dingy pink no matter how many times he’s washed her, one ear had fallen off a few years ago and was sewn back on, and all her stuffing is flattened with age. But she’s still one of his favorite things.) 

He buries his face between her ears, and hugs her close. Phil rubs a thumb over his temple and goes back to combing his hair. 

His sleep is deep and he has a pleasant dream of their old home, their old _life_. The sky is a uniform, sunset pink-orange. Wilbur is playing guitar somewhere, Tommy is chasing butterflies with Tubbo in the grass, and he’s resting his head on Phil’s lap, as he braids flowers into his hair. 

The air smells like azaleas, and everything is good.

\--

Tubbo leans back on the edge of his desk, biting into his tongue so hard he can taste blood. 

He’s so tired. Of course he is, they rose before the sun was even up to ambush Technoblade, but he’s feeling a different kind of exhaustion. 

Of course, the execution of someone like him couldn’t be easy. Couldn’t be easy as blocking a teenager into a box and shooting him with fireworks. 

He sneers at nothing and sinks into his chair, rubbing his temples. He could use a drink, but really, it’s too early. He’s not far gone enough that he drinks at-- he glances at the clock blearily-- barely noon. Ugh. 

He could take a nap. Any work he has can wait, surely. 

In another life, far before now, he would go and hang out with Tommy when he’s this tired. 

His best friend would immediately notice how exhausted he was, and would talk softer, letting him rest at his side, but making it very obvious that he’s there. Or they’d go on a walk, and Tommy would pretend to be annoyed when Tubbo dozed off while walking, and carry the smaller boy home. Or they’d curl up in his bed, listening to music, and take a nap _together_ , secure in the knowledge that they trust eachother enough to do this. 

Hell, even during the revolution, when things were so _complicated_ , they carved out time to do stuff like that together-- even if it was just for an hour, they’d sit together on a ledge and just talk quietly, leaning up against eachother, holding hands, watching everyone else. 

And now Tommy’s missing somewhere, hiding out or-- _something_. Dream hasn’t given him enough details.

Tubbo misses him so much it _hurts_. 

He leans back in his chair, letting it tip slightly, and rubs his eyes now. The sparks of color behind them remind him of the fireworks. 

(“Tubbo! Hey, I’ve been looking for you!” Dream’s mask for once seems to match his voice, because he seems rather cheerful.

Tubbo forces a smile and turns to the masked figure, jogging lightly down the dock. “Hi, Dream,” he offers, hoping the roughness in his voice isn’t too obvious. “You’ve been looking for me? Why?”

Dream comes to a stop in front of him, head tilted. His white mask gleams in the sunlight. This must be a new one— it’s not all scuffed up like the old one, the one Tubbo is fairly sure got broken. “I... I think I might have some bad news for you.”

His brows raise, and his palms are suddenly damp. He casually brushes them off on his suit jacket. “What kind of bad news?” He asks hesitantly. 

Dream has been coming around for a while, seemingly genuine in trying to be friendly. He doesn’t know if he trusts it, but he’s glad for more company. He’s been lonely, as of late, despite how he’s surrounded with people most of the time.

“Tommy’s missing,” Dream says, and something cracks inside of Tubbo, filling his bloodstream with a cold, sticky fear like spilled soda.

“ _What?_ ” His voice is almost shrill, and he curls his hands into fists. “How could he go missing?”

“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging, all too casual. “I went to see him today, I was even gonna let him come back for a visit, but he just... he’s _gone_.”

The wording gives Tubbo pause. His tongue feels too dry and he leans back on his heels, suddenly aware he’s trembling. “When you say gone... do you mean...?” Before Dream can reply, he laughs nervously and waves a hand. “Surely not, right? He’s not— you know...” He chokes briefly and covers his mouth, eyes hot. He doesn’t want to cry.

A warm, fingerless-gloved hand settles on his shoulder. He isn’t sure he’s felt this small in a while. “I don’t mean dead,” he says firmly. “There’s been no message, so he’s not dead. He’s flown away, or something.”

Some of the cold fear inside of him wanes, becoming more like anxiety, which is far more manageable. “That’s... that’s good,” he breathes. His heart is beating too fast. (By the _stars_ , he needs a drink.) “I don’t know where he’d go, if he ran away... he can’t come back here, and everyone he knows is here...” He raises a hand to fidget with one of his ears, rubbing the fur between his fingers. “And he can’t leave the server... can he?”

“Nope,” Dream says, tucking his hands into his pocket. “It’s locked for now. So we at least know he’s somewhere around here.” He laughs, light, like they’re having a normal conversation. Like he didn’t just inform Tubbo that his best friend is _missing_ with no trace. “I have some places to ask around. I don’t want you stressing yourself out doing all the looking.”

He nods along, feeling dazed and thirsty. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be great...” he rubs his temples, and then runs his hands into his hair to rub at his horns. He has a headache.

(He isn’t sure if they’re getting bigger or if he’s just projecting.)

“I’ll tell you if I learn anything, alright?” The older man raises a hand to push his mask up, revealing his mouth enough to see his comforting smile. “I’ll find him.”

Tubbo feels oddly soothed by the idea. “Thank you, Dream.”)

That was almost three weeks ago. Dream hasn’t mentioned it since, other than saying he’s been _looking_.

 _Wouldn’t Tommy try to come to me?_ Tubbo thinks, staring at the ceiling. Even if he’s forbidden from entering the country, he’s never known him to follow orders like that. He’d surely try to sneak in and at least tell him that he’s okay.

Maybe he’s sick? Or hurt? That could explain it. Maybe he’s hiding out somewhere, to recover. 

If he comes around again, he’ll let him back into his life. Of course he will. 

He misses him so much. So much that his stomach hurts from it, so much that his eyes well with tears and they pour down his cheeks.

Sighing, he gets up. He needs a drink, the early hour be damned. 

\--

Ghostbur was in a good mood that morning. In fact, he was well on his way to go and visit his family, where they’re all hiding out in the tundra. Because it sounds fun, and he misses them a lot. It’s been at least a week since he visited. 

But on his way out of L’manberg, humming to himself and enjoying the pale sunlight on his skin and hair and feathers, who did he see but Technoblade? He’s being led around by a group of men in armor, for some reason. The only one he can recognize right off is Ranboo, and that’s only because the boy is so tall. 

Curiosity overtakes planning, and he follows the group at a distance, floating off the ground as to not make a sound. The whole situation feels… strange and a little scary, if he’s being honest. Seeing them dragging Techno around like that makes the back of his neck prickle with unfamiliar anxiety. Of course, he has to figure out what’s happening. Despite dying, he’s still _very_ protective of his brothers, and he’d like some answers as to why Tubbo and Fundy, of all people, are involved with dragging him around in handcuffs. It seems pretty rude.

(Ranboo and Quackity… hmm. He’s not as surprised. He doesn't trust them.) 

He watches warily as they drag him into the plaza, and barricade him into a cage made of iron bars. The situation makes his anxiety rise even higher, and his stomach begins to hurt faintly. Oh, this isn’t good. 

They’re mocking him, too, though he seems unphased. He’s just staring at them, a pink eyebrow arched slightly as Quackity viciously insults him. His tail and ears flick mildly, like a slightly amused cat. 

“I’m not gonna stoop to your level, so you might as well stop tryin’ so hard,” he says in a drawl, leaning back on the bars. They’ve uncuffed his hands, and he crosses his arms casually over his chest. “Get to it. Don’t you wanna go on with your day? I know _I_ do. I have potatoes to farm. Things to kill. Books to read. You know how it is.” 

Ghostbur has to suppress a giggle at how unaffected he sounds. _That’s_ the Techno he remembers. 

“I told you, we should have gagged him,” Fundy mutters, just loud enough to hear. “He’s having way too much fun.” The ghost’s eyebrows twitch down, and he can’t help his soft sigh of disapproval. Why does he sound so into this? Techno is _his_ family too.

“Yeah, but then we wouldn’t have heard him cry when you hit him,” Quackity shrugs. “Or when he dies.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Techno says, waving a hand in a lazy circle. “Get it over with already. I’m gettin’ bored.” 

More insults are tossed, and some kind of mechanism is revealed. Ghostbur can’t see too well from the ground, but he hears the word _anvil_.

With far too much clarity for how he’s felt recently, the truth hits him. They’re going to _kill_ Technoblade. 

His eyes widen, and tears spring to them, cutting down in cheeks in black lines. No! That’s-- that’s awful, why would they do that? Techno hasn’t done anything wrong! He’s done nothing to deserve this! 

He wants to emerge from his hiding place and take him out of that strange little cage, keep him safe and comfortable under his wings, like he did when they were little. He wants to hold him close and take him home. 

But he can’t move. It’s like he’s being held in place, _forced_ to watch by his own horror.

The anvil drops. Techno _screams_ , pained and loud, and he can hear several, _awful_ cracking sounds. 

He barely even notices the explosions, how the cabinet members shout at the sight of Punz. He’s too transfixed by Techno’s bloodied figure, trapped in the now-broken cage, standing stiffly. 

Something is wrong with him. A spill of golden light tumbles from his eyes and mouth, glowing brightly in the overcast light. Something golden flashes in the air faintly before seeming to explode into sparks. 

He stares as his little brother stumbles out of the hole in the cage, blood dripping down his body from-- some kind of wound. There’s blood everywhere, splashed across his face, in his hair, and his eyes are open in a shocked horror. 

Ghostbur’s nose starts bleeding. He can taste it, dripping into his open mouth. He’s remembering something, a _bad_ something.

(Techno standing in the doorway, splattered with so much blood that the white button-up he was wearing was completely red. 

His hair matted and hanging around his face. 

His eyes open so wide he could see the strained vessels in them. 

The sword he carried at the time-- a pretty iron blade that he got for his birthday, shiny and enchanted-- broken and chipped, held so tightly his knuckles were white. 

Not talking. Not talking for-- four or so months. Mostly just sitting curled up in bed, staring at the wall.) 

He starts following him. Of course he does. He wants to help. He even says his name a few times quietly, so he doesn’t startle him. He doesn’t seem to notice, plodding along with heavy steps. His eyes are unfocused, staring at the ground. 

“Techno,” he calls, softly. “Come on, look at me. I want to help.” 

(Is he-- is he invisible again? Completely incorporeal? That's happened a few times when he gets really worked up about things…)

“Hey!” A woman with tied-back blonde hair, dressed in warm-colored clothing with a bag thrown over her shoulder, runs past him. She’s familiar… does he know her? Why does she look so familiar…? 

Techno seems to recognize her as well, jolting when she shouts, and turning to her when she stops next to him. 

“Technoblade,” she breathes, her face flushed with exertion. “I saw what happened. God, I am so _sorry_. I don’t know what’s wrong with people here—”

“No time,” Techno interrupts, and his voice sounds all weird. It makes Ghostbur let out a worried sound and hover near him, touching his shoulder but getting no response. “What do you want?” 

Her pretty face gets stony, and she looks away. “I want to help you. You’re trying to get out of the country, yeah?”

Techno gives a nod, and she leads him down another path. 

Ghostbur follows closely, still off the ground. They exchange words, but he’s more focused on how Techno’s holding his injured side, with his chest all wrapped in his bloody shirt. 

It worries him so much; that memory keeps playing, without proper context or explanation. His own nose is still bleeding, and a few drips come from his mouth as well when he coughs. Oh, this isn’t _good_. 

The woman— her name is Niki, he hears, and he does remember her, she’s the one who runs (ran?) the bakery, he likes her a lot— leads them over a rickety bridge, before sitting Techno down to tend to his wound. 

Ghostbur catches his useless breath at the sight; the wound is edged in green, with bits of white showing through all the red gore. It’s awful and gross-looking and Techno must be _miserable_ from the pain. 

He rests his hand on top of his brother’s own when his breath catches from pain. Niki is cleaning his wound gently, and she murmurs an apology. 

When they leave, he follows. His nosebleed hasn’t stopped, because while that one memory is done, seeing Techno in pain brings up _bad feelings_ , nasty dark emotions that he doesn’t want to confront right now. 

(Techno’s shining purple eyes, full of tears, as Wilbur— Alivebur, that is— leaned over him, curled up on the floor, spitting venom at him. 

His little brother couldn’t have been more than fourteen, his hair awry, his cheek bruised, but Wilbur still _insulted_ him, calling him a monster, a freak, a pathetic creature.)

In those memories, he’s acting so terrible. So _cruel_. No wonder Techno holds him at arms length and looks so uncomfortable around him; he was horrible to him when he was alive! Sure, in those memories, they seemed young, but even Ghostbur knows that childhood events shape your relationships and emotions. 

He must have _destroyed_ theirs…

He resolves right then and there to fix things. He pulls out a book and starts writing down his horrible memories as he walks, and how he can fix them, before he forgets. 

They’re bad, but he needs to remember the bad things too. Good memories make him feel like a better person, but he knows he wasn’t a good person when he was alive. Everyone hated Alivebur, and for good reason.

He’s going to fix things, and he’s starting with Technoblade. 

Blue blood drips onto the paper.

—

Ranboo sits down next to Tommy and fidgets with his tie. They’re in a heavy silence, the air in the basement thick with tension. 

Tommy sighs heavily and leans back on a chest, spreading out his wings against it. The broken one still hurts like hell after this morning (was that just this morning? Fuck) and his fever is still firmly in place. 

He can’t get the sight of Techno’s dazed and lost expression as he clings to Phil out of his head, lined right up with the scene outside this morning and Dream dying on the floor. 

“Alright.” He says, voice stronger than he feels. Ranboo jumps, ears twitching up and tail whipping with alarm. “Tell me what happened with Techno.” 

“Oh…” his friend trails off. “Well, uh. It was Quackity’s idea. The execution part, at least. Tubbo decided we’d capture him. And then… somehow they figured out where he was— I swear I didn’t tell, I _promise—_ and they decided we’d have to ambush him…” he hunches his shoulders down, attempting to make himself small. He does that a lot. “Fundy made this really, really strong weakness potion. Two of them, actually…” 

He brings his long legs up and hugs them, scratching at one idly. “Because, y’know, even with all four of us in full netherite and armed to the teeth, we really can’t take Techno in a fight. The only person who’s a fair match for him is probably Dream…” Tommy flinches completely involuntarily. “So Fundy said that we could weaken him, and then drag him to L’manberg for the execution…” 

He looks up from the floor, looking in Tommy’s direction. “I really didn’t want to do it,” he says, voice shaky. “I told them I didn’t think it was necessary, that it was too violent, but they kept telling _me_ that I had promised, and that Techno deserved it, and… if I had said no, they would have done something _awful…_ ” he shudders. “Things are… not good, over there.” 

Tommy sinks back against the chest, rubbing his eyes. “You should have gotten out of it anyway,” he says, not really thinking. “I know you’re not good at standing up for yourself, but…” 

Ranboo curls up a little smaller, ears drooping. “I know,” he whispers. “I really tried. But… they all scare me, and I don’t want them being even more angry with me, so I just… I listened. I was _scared_ , Tommy.” 

He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. “It’s… I mean, I don’t know if I should, but I trust you. I don’t think you’d just _do_ something like that. You’re… pretty passive.” He nods, not even offended. “But what I saw this morning… god. That was fucked up.” 

“It was,” he agrees quietly. “I didn’t realize how violent they’d be. It… got bloody really fast.” He hugs his legs closer and lets his head droop. “I’m sorry.” 

He shuffles in a little closer, feeling cold in the dim basement, wanting to be close to someone. Their legs brush and Ranboo drops one hand to grab his, threading gloved fingers through his own.

Above them, he can hear Techno crying. 

This has been the longest day he's ever lived through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, if you want more snow au content and to see me actively losing my fucking mind, follow me on tumblr and yell with me 
> 
> this chapter was particularly self indulgent, and im not sorry. this is jaybird's fic and y'all are all just reading it 
> 
> one more thing: im sorry that i replied to like!!! no comments last chapter!!! i'm very tired and Life Stuff is happening so i don't have the energy to reply to most comments. rest assured that i read and reread every comment i get and they fill me with inappropriate levels of serotonin. i'm going to try and do replies this time around, but please don't feel unappreciated if i don't reply! i love you regardless! *platonic forehead kis*


	13. because they are both holy and free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE BITCH. bet you didn't think you'd see me again this soon. if you've been following me on tumblr and seen some of the ramblings i've been doing, you'd know some extra Plot Stuff. 
> 
> one of those Plot Things is what's going on with dream. 
> 
> here's a small, quickly written (like. all together it took me an hour and a half lmao) interim chapter about it, while i work on the real chapter 13 :-)
> 
> this is. super self indulgent, more so than usual. you have to deal with that.
> 
> title from saint bernard by lincoln

Dream snaps into awareness, consciousness, whatever you want to call it, as soon as his back meets the floor. The blackness fades and suddenly he’s in a real house, a real building, the  _ real world _ .

The pained breath that leaves him is mostly involuntary. His back aches and his clothes are sticky with blood. He’s hurt, then. He tastes blood.

_ Focus. What’s going on? What were you dropped into? What was  _ it  _ doing? _

He blinks hard, forcing the world around him into making sense. 

Someone is standing just in front of his sprawled-out form. Large, dark wings are spread out like sails, filling most of his vision, and the owner of those wings is staring down at him with a cold grin on his face, a wickedly sharp sword in his hands. 

He should know who this is. Right? Yeah, he should. His face, even full of icy amusement and rage, is familiar. But it won’t click. Who is this? Who is he? Fuck.

He does realize that he’s in danger, though. 

He doesn’t think before he tries to get back to his feet. An axe is nearby-- his axe, right?-- and he’s already coming up with a vague plan to snatch it up and defend himself. 

Or, well, he is until the man leaning over him kicks him down and shoves the blade of his sword underneath his chin. He bites into his tongue at the sharp shock of pain, and he feels the blood dripping down his throat, more than he expected. 

“You talk a lot of big game for someone who spends most of his time manipulating kids, mate,” he says, and oh he knows _that_ voice, that’s Philza, oh  _ fuck _ . His blue-green eyes are ice-cold and his smile is almost a sneer. And it’s. Wrong. “You couldn’t even have the decency to target an adult with your bullshit? Tommy’s  _ sixteen _ . Really not a good look for you, Dream.”

Someone giggles, high and hysterical. (Tommy?)

“I’m not--” he tries to start, but as soon as he tries to speak, Philza places his foot on his chest, restricting his breathing, and the sword is shoved in further. He chokes, barely able to inhale. 

The words that leave his mouth next aren’t his own. It isn’t his voice, either. “I’m not _manipulating_ him, I’m just trying to keep him safe and stopping him from hurting anyone--”

_ Shut up, _ he screams at the goddamn _thing_ possessing him.  _ Shut up, you’re going to get us killed, you fucking idiot!  _

“Oh, you’re more deluded than I thought.” Those dark, terrifying wings spread out further, feathers ruffling. When he laughs, it sounds like ice crackling. “He told us what you did. You’re either malicious or stupid, and I don’t know which one’s worse. Not letting him fly, breaking his wing-- with your bare hands, no less.” 

Dream blinks. Breaking his wing? What? He broke his wing? No, no, he’d never do something so awful to Tommy. He’s a _kid_. If it wasn’t for-- you know, everything that happened-- he’d see Tommy as a little brother.

Is that what happened? When he had control a little while ago, and Tommy laid on his lap crying? When he sang to him? 

Oh, no.  _ No _ . 

He doesn’t even notice the rest of what Philza says, because the horror that goes through him is _awful_. 

(The. The demon  _ hurt  _ Tommy. Of course, he knew it hurt him, but not-- not that  _ bad _ , right? It  _ never  _ would have hurt him like that. It doesn’t  _ need  _ to, it has  _ him  _ to hurt. But obviously he did, because of that evening where Tommy curled up against his lap sobbing, his feathers all darkened and the bone all crooked...)

He does, however, notice when the sword stabs through his chest. 

The pain is sharp and somehow worse than he expected. He’s been stabbed before-- a murky memory of a fight with… _someone?_ rises to the surface-- but this hurts even worse, an awful, nauseous pain.

He slumps back to the floor. Philza rips the blade from his chest and he raises his hand, shakily, to touch the stab wound. 

His eyes get lidded, and he can’t breathe properly because-- 

because he was stabbed. That makes sense. 

He can feel the blood, pooling around his body, sinking into his hair and skin and clothing. 

He’s at least happy he can _feel_ , for once.

-

Dream wakes up in bed, which in of itself is a feat. 

He’s never in control for very long. Usually, it’s only a few minutes. 

But he’s in bed. He’s awake and in his bed. 

His chest  _ aches _ from the stab wound. 

He sits up, placing a hand on his chest and feeling for the scar. It’s hard to feel through his thick hoodie, but he’s sure it’s there. 

“What were you thinking?” He asks the empty air. “Going against one of the best fighters here. You idiot.” 

The demon, predictably, doesn’t bother to answer him. 

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. It’s a shitty bed; the demon doesn’t need to sleep much, so it’s really only there for when it needs to rest Dream’s (still human, hopefully) body. 

He rubs his eyes and leans his head on his palm. “What were we doing?” he asks, staring at the stone floor of the base. “Why were we there…? That was Techno’s place, right?” 

He’s been trying to figure out what’s been going on around him the last few years. (Eight years…) Especially here, in this server ‘he’ started. 

And that was Technoblade’s cabin, judging by the context clue of Philza being there. They’re usually together, especially nowadays. (...right?)

So. The demon was at Techno’s place. Going after Tommy, presumably, because it’s been… attached to him. He isn’t sure why. (Is it getting tired of him? Can he not… feed it well enough?) 

(That idea is terrifying. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, or let it hurt anyone.) 

He gets up. His chest still hurts, but that’s to be expected; respawn isn’t completely painless. He can’t remember the last time they-- he-- it? died, but he knows it hurts. 

He wishes he wasn’t alone. But he’s been alone for a  _ long  _ time.

He wanders to the small, somewhat sparse bathroom, and stares into the mirror. His face is bare, and he doesn’t recognize himself. 

His eyes are too clear, too bright. The damaged one reacts poorly to light, and the scar over it sticks out sorely. Both eyes are bruised with lack of sleep, and he doesn’t look… healthy. 

Did you forget humans need sunlight? he thinks, annoyed. 

His mouth hurts, very slightly, so he checks his teeth in the mirror. 

One of his teeth is missing. It’s a healed hole, so he must’ve lost it today or very recently. He runs his tongue over the skin of his gums. 

“Fuck,” he mutters at his reflection. 

Something black flickers behind him. It doesn’t even scare him anymore.

He wants to go home. This base isn’t home, of course. It just… exists as shelter, a place to rest and eat. Home would be with his friends, his brothers, his family. 

But they haven’t spoken to “him” in a while. The demon has been shoving everyone away. 

Even George, which fucking hurts. He was the last person on his side, but the demon managed to fuck that up too. 

(“You’ve been… different, lately,” George said, softly, sitting curled up next to Dream’s body on the couch. 

_ Yes! _ Dream thought, watching through the demon’s eyes.  _ I am! That’s not me! You  _ **_know_ ** _ it’s not me!  _

“How so?” The demon asked, in Dream’s voice, with Dream’s inflections. It shuffled closer to George and draped an arm around his waist. “I haven’t noticed anything different about myself…” 

“I don’t know,” his voice was small. He fiddled with one of his bracelets. “You’ve just been… distant? You’ve been leaving a lot and you’re out all the time and I feel like--” He sighed, sinking against its side. “I don’t  _ know _ . I’m just worried about you, Dream.”

It shifted to tilt up his chin, to meet his eyes. “I guess I’ve been a little stressed,” it admitted. “There’s just been a lot going on, y’know? I have a lot on my mind.” It cupped George’s cheek in a warm hand and gently rubbed along his cheekbone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was ignoring you.” 

Dream screamed inside his own head, metaphorically shaking the prison bars of his mind.  _ Fuck! No,  _ **_stop_ ** _ touching him, don’t listen to it, George!  _

Of course, he went unheeded.

George stared up at it’s face, traces of anxiety on his expression, but he still leaned into it’s hand, melting into it. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “I’m just worried about you.” 

The demon grinned; Dream could feel their mouth spread, almost feral. “There’s no need for you to worry,” it promised, hollow, and Dream screamed again. It leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I’m all fine.”)

Dream sits down on the bathroom floor. 

He’s learned his lesson about seeking other people out when he’s free. 

(Technoblade standing over him with harsh, focused eyes, blood on his hands. “Don’t you dare get close to me ever again.”) 

(Sapnap’s fiery eyes, sharp fangs bared when he tried to talk to him, sparks flickering in his hair. Purpled avoiding his gaze, ducking down and quickly leaving the area.) 

(He’s never seen Bad as angry as he was when he snapped into control that day. It was horrifying, and he still isn’t even sure what happened. Just that he had an axe and his friend was bleeding and everything felt wrong.)

(George just _disappearing_. One day, he was there, and the next he wasn't. Dream still doesn't know when he left.)

He's so lonely.

He rubs his face, before letting his hands rest between his spread legs. 

He should do something to enjoy his brief freedom, but he’s far too tired. 

(And scared.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the real chapter 13 will be around,,,, sometime. idk when i write when i have time and insp lmao


	14. so bite your tongue and choke yourself to sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i stayed up from 1am to nearly 6am to finish this chapter because i realized i could write one specific thing and got so fucking _jazzed_ y'all 
> 
> anyway. im so excited for this chapter to be out in the world. it has so much and i had so much fucking fun writing it. things are going fuckign so fucking well. it was gonna be a lil longer but i realized the pacing was getting weird. 
> 
> full family angst!!! everyone is suffering!!! *blows party horn* it's kind of heavy so please be safe n all fellas (gender neutral)
> 
> a few warnings because i imply some stuff: specifically in techno's part at the end, there's references to parental death, house fires, cannibalism (half-cannibalism? makes sense with context) and some pretty nasty injuries. in other parts, there's a reference to child abuse, a reference or two to underage alcoholism, and a reference to uhhh what happens to ranboo when he gets too wet which im pretty sure counts as some kind of warning. body horror? so that's fun. 
> 
> everything else is pretty in line with the other chapters though? i just wanted to warn a little extra because i kinda went off in some places lmao.
> 
> and now i'm going to take a nap have a very sexy and interesting morning
> 
> title from choke by i don't know how but they found me. vaguely related: i wrote the very end of this chapter listening to class of 2013 by mitski and boy, did it make me feel forbidden emotions

As soon as Techno drifts off to sleep, clutching his plush and breathing softly, Phil’s shoulders slump and he buries his face in his hands, hunched over on the edge of the bed.

God. _Executed_. They tried-- and technically succeeded-- to execute him. What the  _ fuck _ . 

The emotional exhaustion of… well, the past few months in general, but today _specifically_ , settles on his shoulders heavily, making him slump further. His wings droop, feathers bending slightly against the bed with a light rustle. It hurts, but only a little. 

He hasn’t seen Techno  _ break _ like that in a long time. Even his reaction to Wilbur’s death wasn’t that extreme. He seemed more shocked than anything, then. 

(He had joined him to help build this cabin, and came around one afternoon to him standing in front of the in-progress building, tears running down his cheeks and his hand over his mouth.

Phil didn’t know what to say-- he was still processing it himself-- so they had stood in the snow together, his hand on his back, their eyes on the setting sun.) 

This… seems like something that’s been coming for a long time. And he’s sure it is.

He knows Techno doesn’t let himself feel that kind of vulnerability. He’s a master of bottling up feelings, of deflecting, of pushing people away so he doesn’t have to rely on them. Even when he was small, he kept things to himself. The fact that he admitted to not one, but two people helping him get out of this situation… it must have been terrible. 

He cradles his own head in his hand, and drops the other to hold Techno’s unbandaged cheek. He’s sleeping deeply, completely exhausted, and with every breath he growls softly. His inhales are slightly stuttered, but he’s sure that’s just his wound bothering him.

That wound isn’t the worst he’s seen by far, but Techno’s reaction to it was the horrifying part. For a moment, all he could see was that terrified, withering child he found in the Nether, so shocked from trauma and pain that all he could do was stare. 

(“I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothed, kneeling down in front of the scared child in the small hollow of netherrack. “Can you understand me?” 

The child stared at him, gold-hued eyes unblinking. Black crawls in blood-poisoning lines across his face, radiating out from the cuts on his cheeks and  _ just  _ missing one eye. 

After a very long moment, long enough for him to feel a bead of sweat travel from his hairline to his jaw, he nods his head.)

He should have protected him. But he made a choice-- to go after his youngest for once in his life, to keep him safe from a man that only wants to cause him harm-- and no matter how much he wants to, he can’t change the past. He can’t go back and somehow do both. 

Downstairs, he hears the door open. He’s too tired to jolt with alarm. He rubs his thumb over Techno’s cheek, over the scar from the wither skeleton attack. It had done a number on him, and even now, he’s sure they still frighten him. 

Techno is actually scared of a lot of things, not that he’d admit to many of them. 

Phil sighs, feeling heavy with exhaustion and really just wanting to crawl back into bed. But, no, he has Tommy relying on him and-- fucking-- one of the people who arrested his son downstairs like a morbid houseguest. 

(Techno’s slurred voice. “Don’t kill him.”) 

He gets up from the edge of the bed. Usually, he feels pretty energetic despite his age, but right now, he can feel all the years piling onto him like stones, pinning him to the floor like a butterfly to corkboard. 

(How old he is by now, anyway? All those years alone, mostly in the End or underground, screwed with his sense of time. Hard to measure time when there’s no sun, no moon, no day, no night.)

He stretches, everything feeling sore, and gives Techno one more look before going back downstairs. 

He’s greeted by Ghostbur, sitting at the table, legs curled up to his chest, and bright-blue blood dripping down his chin from a profusely bleeding nose. His cheeks are flushed and there’s blood on his sweater and arms, from small wounds that almost look like burns, exposed from his pulled-up sleeves.

He can’t help the small part of him that screams in-- exasperation?-- at the sight of  _ another  _ hurt son. 

He needs a moment, just  _ one _ , to process some of this. Techno’s rotting wound, Tommy’s mania stemming from Dream’s death, the execution, killing Dream in the same way he killed Wilbur, just--  _ everything _ . 

He’s not sure he’ll get one. Hopefully tonight, he’ll have a few hours to himself, to just cry. Maybe go outside and destroy something to get out the prickly feeling of rage that never really goes away. 

But for now, he’s going to have to help some more. 

(May all the gods forgive him, but he’s so fucking  _ tired _ .)

“Hey, Ghostbur,” he says, keeping his voice soft as to not scare the obviously alarmed ghost. “What happened?”

He looks up, eyes round and alarmingly colorless. (That's one of the hardest things to get used to; Wilbur’s deep brown eyes were beautiful and familiar, and they’re just… gone.) 

He wipes blood from his nose with the heel of his hand, seemingly forgetting that his sleeves are out of the way. “I got caught in the snow,” he says, voice more whispery than usual. “Where’s Techno?” 

Phil rubs his eyes and forces his sigh not to sound annoyed. “He’s upstairs, sleeping. Might not want to bother him, he was really exhausted.” 

“But he’s safe?” He presses, looking at him with those unsettling eyes. There are tears caught on their edges, on long eyelashes. “He didn’t… he wasn’t hurt too bad, right? He didn’t… die?” 

He slumps into one of the other chairs. “No, he didn’t die.” He rests his head on his palm. “I had to fix him up, but he’s going to be alright. Just… he’ll need time to heal.” He glances at Ghostbur, who’s still staring at him. “Did you… see what happened?” 

He gives a tiny nod, wrapping his arms around himself. “Yeah,” he whispers. The heartbreak in his voice is strong enough his own chest hurts. “I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. I was so  _ scared _ , Phil. I think he was too, but… you know how he is. He was joking and laughing about it. And then they… dropped that anvil.” He lowers his gaze, and is quiet for a long moment. 

For a second, all he can see is Wilbur, a long, long time ago. He was still very young-- twelve or so-- and it was the first time he opened up about the people who raised him before he ran away. 

(“They were… terrible,” his voice was small, and he fiddled with his hands absentmindedly. “They insulted me all the time a-and called me names and w-wouldn’t let me sleep in a real bed…” He slumped down in his chair. “They hit me sometimes, too.”)

Ghostbur wraps his fluffy wings around himself. “I wanted to  _ help _ ,” he murmurs, almost sounding like he’s alive again. “But I went invisible, and it happened anyway. He screamed so… so loud.” He sniffles, blue-tinted tears dripping down his cheeks. 

Some of the exhaustion clears out of instinct, and Phil stands, bringing him into his arms and trying to soothe him. “It’s okay,” he promises quietly, because regardless of his own feelings, he needs to soothe the person he arguably hurt the most. “He’s alright, you’re alright too. You couldn’t stop that from happening.”

“I could have  _ tried _ ,” he says, tired anger sinking into the words. “But I was just stuck. I had to watch it happen, and it was so terrible and I was remembering awful things the whole time and I--” he hiccups and hides his face. “I’m a terrible brother.” 

He sighs, resting his cheek against the top of his head. He’s unsettlingly cold against him, and he knows it’s not from the snow. “You’re not,” he assures. It comes out a little hollow, just like he feels most of his comfort comes out. “You’re a good brother. Both of your brothers love you a lot, and that’s what matters.” 

“I was  _ mean  _ when I was alive,” he says, a little angrier. His body seems to flicker as his emotions rise. “I was awful to Techno for years, and Tommy was scared of me, and I was… I wasn’t nice at all, when they  _ needed  _ me to be nice.” He curls his hands into fists and presses them to his thighs. “I want to fix it, but I don’t know  _ how _ !”

He holds him close for a moment more, running a hand briefly through his hair. He should be happy he’s remembering something that isn’t just good things-- he had expressed some frustration about that before-- but he doesn’t like the  _ anger  _ in his voice.

“I… really don’t know either. I wish I did. I wish I could help you.” He can’t help but feel tears in his own eyes at the level of helplessness.

(He’s so  _ tired _ .)

He sniffles and pulls away to rub tears off his face. He’s even more flushed, and his nose is still bloody. “I just feel so terrible,” he groans. “I was invisible for hours, and the snow burnt my arms, and my head  _ hurts _ .”

Phil kisses his forehead and pushes back his hair. “I’ll get you cleaned up, and then maybe you can take a nap.” He pauses. “Does sleeping even really help you?”

Ghostbur shrugs, with a weak laugh. “I don’t really know. It feels right, though. Just like how I still breathe even though I don’t need to.” 

_ That’s only mildly horrifying _ , he thinks. How casually he speaks about being dead is… something he’s having to adjust to. 

He’s having to adjust to a lot.

He’s not sure how much longer he can do it.

(He doesn't really have a choice.)

\--

Ranboo stretches his legs out along the basement floor. He’s sore from walking and his skin is itchy from the snow. 

Tommy chuckles tiredly next to him. “Today has been so fucked up,” he mutters, and he nods in agreement. “I woke up way too early for all of this.” He shudders, still laughing a little.

He hesitates for a moment, bringing his hand up to scratch at one of his ears. They got snow on them too and now they’re all irritated.  “You don’t  _ have  _ to tell me, but… do you actually not know why Dream was here?” 

He gets quiet in an instant. He brings one of his wings closer and runs his fingers over the feathers. It’s the one that kind of hangs wrong, that he’s seen bandaged a few times. He must have broken it somehow. Did he tell him how? He would’ve written it down, so no, probably. 

“...Dream visited me a lot while I was exiled,” Tommy says, speaking very carefully. “He acted like he was in charge of me. I guess he was, but... he was… a dick about it. He’d take all my stuff and burn it, so I never had any tools or anything, and he was just an  _ asshole _ .” 

He brings his legs up, in a mirror of only moments ago when Ranboo did the same, and he hugs them with the arm that’s not occupied by their joined hands. “He just… kind of messed with me the whole time. He got in my head about things.” 

Ranboo watches him, worried for how quiet and careful he’s gotten all of the sudden, and gently squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, anxiety that he doesn’t like welling up in his stomach. Dream has always made him uncomfortable, even though they haven’t talked much. He could imagine him messing with Tommy, though. “Did he come here to… mess with you some more?” 

Tommy shrugs. “Yeah. He wanted to make me come with him and shit.” He leans back on the chest and stares at the ceiling, eyes lidded. “I broke his stupid mask and knocked out one of his teeth. Phil stabbed him.” 

He winces slightly. “Sounds… bloody.” 

“It was,” his voice is odd, a little flat compared to the usual, something unsaid hanging just behind the words. He gives a low sigh. (His hands are shaking and his eyes are slightly shiny, but even Ranboo knows it’d be impolite to point that out.) “But he’s dead for a bit, which is… nice.” 

He stretches his legs out again and rubs his face. “We should probably go upstairs. Are you going to go home?” 

Ranboo frowns and glances at the ladder. He could hear a lot of the crying and conversation that took place upstairs after they left; his hearing is unsettlingly good. (He wasn’t sure if Techno could cry, honestly. But he was  _ sobbing _ .) 

“I don’t know,” he says distantly. “If the snow has stopped, maybe. I can’t walk home if it’s snowing…” he scratches his ear again, ignoring how he feels blood sink into his glove. They’re already stained from helping Techno; he has another pair at home. “I think Philza wants me to leave. He didn’t seem too happy about me being here.”

“He’s just… really,  _ really  _ protective,” Tommy rubs his thumb against the side of his hand idly. The contact makes his chest feel warm. “Techno… is kind of his favorite, and he’d do a lot to keep him safe. I’m sure if you explained, he’d understand if you want to stay.” He stands up, pulling Ranboo along with him. 

He shrugs, wrapping his free arm around himself loosely. “If you think so. I don’t think I’m ready to walk all that way back yet, honestly.” 

He flashes him a quick smile, earnest and bright, making his heart leap with how happy it makes him, and tugs him to the ladder. They climb it, Tommy first, and emerge to see Philza attending to Ghostbur’s bloodied nose. 

“What happened?” Tommy asks immediately, something like hysteria at the very edges of his voice. He’s been talking like that off and on this whole time.

“It’s okay,” Ghostbur says immediately, wincing slightly as Phil wipes blood from his chin. “I’m fine. I remembered something bad, that’s all.” He pauses. “A  _ lot  _ of bad things, actually. But I’m okay now.” 

Ranboo watches the quick succession of conflicted emotions on Tommy’s face. Relief, horror, relief again, and then a careful amusement. “That’s good,” he says, softer. “I gotta say, I’m getting a little tired of my brothers coming home all bloody. It’s not great for me, I don’t think.” 

“Oh, you think it’s hard on you?” Phil says, voice laced with sarcasm. “I’m surprised my heart hasn’t given out.” 

Ghostbur giggles thickly, and Tommy grins. Ranboo doesn’t feel like he should be there, but the sarcasm and the happy expression on his friend’s face makes him smile too. 

“Is Techno in bed?” Tommy asks, walking to the fireplace. He grabs the poker and jabs at the logs in the fire. “Dammit, it’s not melting yet.” 

Curious, Ranboo comes over to see what he means. He peers over his shoulder, and sees an iron axehead laying in the bed of ashes, white-hot but definitely unmelted. “I don’t know if it’s hot enough,” he offers as an explanation. “Why are you burning an axe anyway?” 

“Because Dream tried to cut my wings off with it,” he says, voice casual, as if he didn’t even realize he was going to say it. As soon as the words pass his lips, he goes very pale and puts his hand over his mouth, eyes wide with horror. 

They take a moment to process in his own head. Dream… tried to cut off his wings… with an axe. 

Something clatters in the kitchen, and Phil swears quietly. It somehow makes everything make sense. 

( _ “He just… kind of messed with me the whole time. He got in my head about things.” _ )

(the bandages around his wing-- they had bothered him so much the first time he visited that he wrote it down and added some theories in his memory book and they all jump back to him now, jumbled together, boiling down to  _ someone hurt him??? _ )

“Tommy, can I give you a hug?” Ranboo asks, voice just as abruptly casual. He hadn’t planned to say that either, but he can’t take it back now. 

Not with how Tommy stares up at him, blue eyes shining. He can’t even be mad that he’s looking him in the eyes, even when it makes him start to tremble.

He lowers his hand, and nods shakily. 

Ranboo hasn’t… given hugs in a while. The last person he hugged was Niki, and she always initiates it. 

He still wraps his arms around Tommy and pulls him in close. He feels very small against him, even skinnier than he is, his head only coming up to his shoulder. When his arms circle around him in return, he clings to his (slightly damp) suit jacket, resting his head against his shoulder and sighing. Where his wings brush against him, they're soft, and fleetingly he wishes he wasn't wearing long sleeves, so he could feel his feathers.

He feels a sharp, protective urge that he’s never felt before. Tommy is hurt and obviously  _ scared _ , and he’s his friend, maybe the only one he has now, with how Fundy barely speaks to him and Tubbo seems lost in his own downfall and Quackity is just…  _ lost _ . Niki is more family than anything else.

He wants to protect him. Pick him up and take him somewhere _safe_ and _keep_ him there, where nobody can hurt either of them. They’re both just teenagers, Tommy’s even younger than him, and they don’t need to be so  _ scared _ .

Ranboo only hugs him tighter, lifting him off his feet. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair. He doesn’t want to let him go. (Maybe he also needs this hug. It makes him feel warm and he’s always so cold.) 

“Uh,” Tommy mumbles, pressed against his shoulder. “You’re hurting me a little, big man.” 

He squeezes him closer for a moment, before gently setting him back on the floor. “Sorry. I just… I don’t know.” He sniffles, embarrassed by how much it affected him. “Sorry.” 

He takes his hand, intertwining their fingers again. “It’s okay.” 

Things are quiet, for a long time. They stand together for unmeasured minutes, unspoken emotions and implied things hanging in the air. 

Outside, the snow howls.

They sit down in front of the fire, and Tommy rests his head against his shoulder. 

Ghostbur joins them on the floor, face now clean. There’s drops of blood on his sweater, and his fingers are blue with either his blood or the crystals he carries around. “Hi,” he says, voice small, and he pats Ranboo’s arm with a terrifyingly cold hand. “Thank you for helping Techno.” 

He blinks, startled by the contact and the fact that he  _ knows _ . “Oh. You’re welcome? How did you… know that?” 

“I was following you,” the ghost says lightly. “Well, following Techno and Niki, at first. And then I followed the two of you until the snow stopped me.” He folds his legs underneath himself and sighs happily. “I’m glad you helped him. He was very hurt and I was scared something bad would happen.” 

His voice is so cheerful, despite the topic. Ranboo shivers a little; he wishes he could have that oblivious optimism. “I was scared too. But I think he’s alright now.” If alright means strictly _not dead_ , which he's taking it as.

Thank the  _ stars  _ for that. For a few minutes, when the snow started, he was so terrified that Techno would lose consciousness, and die out in the cold. He’s too heavy for him to carry (because in all honesty, he’s not very strong) and he wouldn’t have been able to drag him into the cabin.

And the guilt of that would have crushed him alive, heavy as an anvil but much deadlier. 

He wants to curl up into a ball and scratch his skin off for what he’s done. He had always been very determined not to pick sides in the world, but instead pick  _ people _ .

He thinks he may have picked the _wrong_ people. 

He thinks about the entirely too pleased grin on Quackity’s face when he struck Techno in the shoulder for talking too much and a single tear had slipped down the piglin hybrid’s cheek. That really says it all, at least for him.

(“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tubbo says, smiling, as he pats Ranboo’s arm dry after spilling water all over him. “It was an accident.” 

He pretends he doesn’t see right through him. His shirtsleeve is sticking to his melting skin.)

“So,” Philza’s voice is careful as he comes over to sit on the chair near them. “I’m sorry I threatened you, Ranboo.” 

The apology feels slightly insincere, but Ranboo nods, accepting it. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you, I kind of… y’know…” he waves his hands vaguely, accidentally jostling Tommy. “Oh, sorry.”

“‘s fine,” Tommy replies, leaning further into his shoulder. He seems very tired, and he's warm and heavy against him. It feels nice.

“Thank you for helping Techno,” Phil adds, leaning forward to look down at the three of them. “I… really didn’t know what was going on, so I had no idea what to expect…” 

He winces slightly and looks down at his lap, fiddling with his tail. It wraps around his arm to keep from nervously twitching. “It was really terrible,” he admits. “I’m really… really sorry.” His heart feels like it’s in his throat. (He’s not too proud to admit how much Phil scares him. He’s… very intimidating. Much more so than anyone else. )

There’s a long moment of silence. “...can you tell me what exactly happened?” He asks, looking into the fire. He’s tapping his foot and running his fingers over his shiny, emerald earring.

He lets out a little  _ vwoop  _ of nervousness, staring at the floor. “Yeah,” he says, voice small. He pulls at his tie, feeling choked. 

He explains the situation the same way he explained it to Tommy, maybe with a little more stuttering and rambling. 

He ends up having to push his friend away, despite enjoying the physical contact entirely too much, because he’s so fidgety and unable to keep still. He’s scared and nervous. He pulls his knees up to his chest and lets his tail wrap around his legs; he pulls at his ears, his tie, his jacket.

“I really didn’t want to do it, I swear,” he whispers finally, the horrible confession like coughing up glass. It's worse this time, because he can see the anger building in Phil's eyes. “It was t-terrible, I felt so awful about it. But I was scared, a-and…” he trails off, feeling like speaking is going to become too hard at this point. He keeps making little chirps to himself to try and calm down. 

There’s too much silence following his words. 

Eventually, Phil sighs deeply, and leans back in the chair. He covers his face with his hands, and Ranboo’s stomach twists with guilt. 

“That’s horrible,” Ghostbur says softly. He’s sitting with his cloudlike wings drawn closer to his body, and he’s fiddling with a piece of blue. “Why would someone plan something so horrible?” 

Ranboo shakes his head, hugging his knees closer to his chest. “I don’t know. Justice, I guess? Or... revenge, maybe.” He thinks about Tubbo’s facial scars, how he admitted they were from his own public execution, done by Technoblade himself.

(Tubbo had leaned back in his office chair, eyes rimmed with red, a glass held in his hand with whiskey still shining in its depths, close to spilling. "I was trapped, and he killed me." 

He's never heard his kind voice so viciously full of rage.)

“I really don’t know. They probably told me why, but… I don’t remember.” He rests his head against his knees and lets out a low noise of concern, though for what he's not sure.

He wishes he could forget the execution itself, but that’s already lodged itself firmly into long-term memory. 

Yay. 

\--

At some point, Techno’s happy dream of their pretty old house with the neat oak walls and good furniture and the azalea bush on the porch and the protective walls turns into a  _ nightmare _ .   


He’s not sure when or how it happens. But suddenly, the idyllic tranquility of the sunset turns into a dark, black night, no stars or moon.

The house is on fire. Techno can hear things crashing in the burning building, he can hear one panicked, awful scream that has to be Tommy, he can hear them calling for help. The trees are ablaze and the flowers are nothing but ash. He can’t breathe. 

And yet, he also can’t move. He’s trapped standing underneath the old willow tree, the one he used to try and climb with Wilbur on his heels. He was always able to make it higher. 

He watches as their entire life goes up in flames. 

Everything comes back around to fire, in his life. 

His parents were burnt to death, all those years ago; he remembers watching it happen. He remembers watching another house-- this one not as beloved-- going up in flames. They both screamed, he remembers hearing it and not understanding why. 

He was just six, oh so lucky to have been playing outside when the fire was set. 

And then there were the years in the Nether, raising himself in that hot cradle of fire and monsters and death. Learning things the hard way. 

(Avoid open spaces, so the ghasts can’t see you as easily.   
Stay vigilant of your surroundings, but don’t look anything in the eyes; keep your eyes on the ground.   
Theft is serious; do so sparingly.   
Sleeping is dangerous; only do it when necessary.   
Food is hard to come by; you eat as much as you can, and you eat _whatever_ you can get. (At some point, he had eaten part of a piglin’s corpse, and it hadn’t registered to him as _horrific_ until he was sixteen and remembered it during dinner. He hadn’t eaten for two days afterwards because everything would make him sick.)   
(He still doesn't really like the taste of pork.)  
Warped vines can soothe burns, but too much makes your skin peel in horrible, bluish-purple patches.   
Avoid fortresses and bastions at all costs. ~~He didn’t really heed that one.~~ )

And now his home, the only one he’s really ever felt safe in, is burning, flames licking the sky, eating the grass. His family has stopped screaming. Something crashes inside and fire billows out the open-- missing?-- front door.

The willow tree hides the path he usually takes to meet up with Dream. They took that very path on their way to the ruins that day, hands intertwined, swords at the ready. Excited for another adventure. 

They’re suddenly there again, the fire gone, save for the torches on the walls. Did Dream put them there? He can’t recall, but why would there be torches in an abandoned temple, deep underground?

“I don’t know how I feel about this place,” Techno says, feeling the obsidian on one of the pillars with his gloved fingertip. The red inlaid shapes are mostly in the form of teardrops, for some reason. He runs his palm over them. “It’s creepy.” 

“Yeah,” Dream agrees, inspecting the altar. “Is it as bad as that house we found a while back?”

He snorts, turning to join him at the long, high altar. It also has red drops all over it, along with a few long marks like the stone has been gauged. “No, that place was worse. There was a rottin’ baby doll in the bathtub, Dream. That’s awful.”

“I thought the doll wasn’t actually that bad. It was the _perfectly preserved_ kids room that freaked me out, personally,” Dream drawls, running his fingers along the symbols. “What do you think all this means? The pillars have these on them too, right?” 

“Yeah. And I think I saw some skulls, too?” Techno adjusts his glasses and kneels down to look closer, curious. “I thought maybe it was a wither. Those are everywhere in old carvings. But not here, it’s… just normal skulls.” 

“Like… human skulls?” he questions. “Weird.” 

He nods in agreement and leans in to inspect a line of symbols. The drop, the skull, something long and diagonal (a sword? a knife? a spear?) and then a hand, fingers splayed wide. Only lines along the wrist are laid in red.

Something about that makes him shiver, and he stands. He blames it on the chilly cave. “We should go back up, I think…” 

“We just got down here, though.” Dream’s brows furrow. “There’s another room, we should go look at that at least. Maybe there’s treasure.” 

Techno’s ears perk at _treasure_ , his traitorous face breaking into a grin and his equally betrayal-prone tail wagging. “Okay, fine. We’ll check it out.”

They duck through another small opening in the rock, and come into another open cavern, this one also lit with torches. Despite that, there’s still a spider lurking, which Techno cuts down without even blinking. 

This room is mostly empty, only possessing pillars and a long ledge of obsidian, almost like a bench, running around the room at about waist height on the two of them. 

They search it anyway, and Dream shouts triumphantly as he checks near the entrance. “There’s a chest!”

Techno lets out a happy gasp completely involuntarily, and joins him to inspect the contents. 

It’s unfortunately mostly empty, only a few scraps of stuff like leather and a bit of gunpowder and bundles of dusty paper, but nestled among the useless junk, is a pair of diamonds, a long golden chain, and a book that shimmers with magic.

Dream pulls them out, smudging gunpowder on his fingers. He sits cross-legged on the floor, handing over the chain without complaint when Techno holds his hands out. “Is it real gold?” 

He nods, running his fingers over the small links of it. “Yep, it’s real. I’m keeping it.” 

“Cool.” He grins, tucking the gems into his pocket. “I thought you were going to bite it, honestly. You did it last time.” 

He scrunches up his nose and punches his arm. “You’re a dick.” 

He wheezes a laugh, shoving him away, and flips open the enchanted book, inspecting its contents. “Hm… I’m not sure what this one is. Maybe sharpness or something?” 

He takes it to look it over as well, but it’s too dark for him to read even with his glasses on. “We can ask Phil when we get back,” he reasons. “C’mon.” 

They get up from the floor, and walk out of the small chamber. They stroll past the altar, well on their way to the cave’s entrance, when Dream pauses and returns to the slab of obsidian. 

“What is it?” Techno asks. “You said we’d go back after this.” 

“Yeah, just… hold on a sec…” His voice is faint, and he runs his fingers along the edge of the rock. “C’mere. I see something.”

Techno is too curious for his own good, so he rolls his eyes with an annoyed huff and joins him next to it again, leaning over to see what he’s looking at on the edge of the slab. 

As soon as he leans down a little, Dream grabs the back of his hairand smashes his head against the obsidian. 

The pain is dizzying and immediate, and suddenly the room is spinning. A low groan leaves him and his mostly-empty stomach sweeps with nausea. Dream’s hand is hopelessly entangled in his hair, pulling at his braid.

“Dream?” he slurs, as he yanked away from the obsidian and pushed to his knees. His vision is spotted with black and his glasses have fallen off. “Why did… why did you…?” 

“Shut up,” his best friend scolds, tightening his grasp on his hair and making him whimper. 

“It hurts,” he says with a small whine. “Let go of me, what’s wrong with you?” 

He’s shoved towards the altar, his face pressed against the top of it. On his knees, he can just barely reach to do so. 

“Give me your arm,” and that’s not Dream’s voice, which still cracks and squeaks often, its too low and smooth. When Techno doesn’t comply, feeling like he isn’t hearing anything correctly, he seizes his left arm and pulls it up to rest near his head. “Good. Be still.” 

He’s about to argue that he really can’t move much at all, with his hand in his hair and around his wrist, but talking seems very hard. His mouth has an awful taste in it, like the aftertaste of blood and bile together. 

Dream keeps his hand pinned and takes his hand from his hair. He was being held up just slightly, so his head falls down and collides painfully on the rock. He thinks he might scream a bit. 

The situation feels wrong and surreal. Surely, he’s only daydreaming on their long walk back up through the cave. 

And any minute now, he’s going to focus back on reality, and Dream will laugh at him for zoning out, throwing his arm around his shoulders, and he won’t flinch away because he’s one of maybe five people on this planet who’s allowed to do that. And then they’ll go home, and Phil will look over the enchanted book and tell them what it is, and they’ll have lunch together before Dream goes home to his brothers. And Techno will curl up next to Wilbur on the couch, tired from their adventure, and tell him all about the creepy temple. And everything will be okay.

Dream is his best friend. The person he might just trust most in this world. So this can’t be real.

Techno’s hand is forcefully turned to reveal his inner wrist. Dream has drawn one of his knives, one of the many he keeps on his belt. (He picked up the habit of collecting knives from a friend of his. He can’t recall his name now, but he’s another person from the Nether… maybe.) 

The blade is so sharp, the edge so thin, that he almost doesn’t feel it when he drags it along his wrist, and slightly down at an angle. With how his face is turned, he can see the blood immediately well up, startlingly red against his incredibly pale skin. It runs in lines down his arm, hot and fresh. 

The smell of it makes him want to scream. 

“Dream,  _ Dream _ , stop,” his voice comes out too weak, barely even his own. “Please, stop, it hurts, I--” 

His hand returns to his hair and pushes his face further against the obsidian, forcing the injured side of his head to press against the unforgiving surface. He lets out a hoarse sob. 

It’s not real. It’s not _real_. Why would it be real? This is just some weird fantasy, cooked up by his active imagination and the creepy temple. It’s not real. 

_ It’s not real.  _

His blood drips onto the altar in slow, splattering drops. Dream uses the hand he cut him with to swipe blood off his arm and spread it on the rock, before turning his wrist to press it to it. 

It’s cold against the cut, and he whimpers. It’s not real. This isn’t _real_. 

_ Wake up _ , he urges himself internally.  _ Wake up.  _

He doesn’t. (On more than one level.) 

Vaguely, he’s aware of a grumbling sound. Of the carvings on the stone glowing brightly, starting where his blood is sinking into them, and that makes a primal sort of fear begin to fill his belly, overriding his horror about the situation. 

Dream lets go of him, but he can’t move. He feels like some unseen force is pinning him in place, and he’s shaking slightly. 

He’s terrified. He hasn’t been this scared in a long time. Maybe ever. 

“Dream?” He asks, voice high. “Dream, I can’t  _ move _ . Help me.” His voice is slurred, the syllables getting low as some part of him just wants to revert to piglin sounds. “Please.” 

He doesn’t help him. Why would he? He obviously planned this to happen, or something like that. 

Suddenly, his thoughts sharpen and multiply, what seems like a thousand different voices exploding into his head. 

_ Fresh blood!  
_ _ Finally!  
_ _ A new vessel _ _   
_ _ Young and healthy and strong  
_ _ Blood blood blood  _

They begin to laugh, in varying tones, sharp and low and high and soft and cackling and mocking. He whimpers, dragging his heavy, bleeding arm over to press a hand over his ear. 

He’s heard voices before. When he was about ten, he started hearing voices that were definitely not his own thoughts, and it terrified him. They weren’t scary, just loud and somehow disturbingly soft at the same time. 

He had run through the house in the middle of the night to climb into Phil’s bed, scared, and rambled nonsensically about the sounds, the words not understandable as any language, human or otherwise. 

_ Get up,  _ the new voices encourage as one.  _ Get up.  _

He does. He isn’t sure how he’s able to move  _ now _ , but he gets up, pulling himself up with the side of the altar. Blood drips down his arm, down the side of his head from where his head was bashed against the rock.

Dream is standing behind him, smiling with just his mouth, nothing in his eyes. He’s looking at him with no care in his gaze, and he doesn’t recognize him all of the sudden.

Techno hears a growl leave his mouth, the same kind of growl that he makes when he’s protecting his brothers.

_ Draw your sword,  _ they purr. He does, obedient, his body feeling like it’s barely under his control. His head is fuzzy with pain and exhaustion and all the noise.

The diamond blade flashes in the torchlight. It’s the nice, enchanted one, the one he was given for his birthday, along with his pretty velvet cape. He tightens his fingers around the hilt and the grip presses into his leather gloves. 

His best friend is still staring at him, smile widening. 

_ Spill his blood _ , they say, soft, like a mother speaking to her child.  _ Make him hurt as much as you do.  _

His mouth splits in a feral grin, and he lunges forward to slash at Dream’s face. Blood blooms from the wound and he goes down with a scream, suddenly sounding terrified.

_ Blood for the blood god _ , they murmur, and he makes a wild snarling noise in agreement. _You're already doing so well._

\--

Techno wakes up in a panic. Nothing makes sense, and he can’t breathe, and his head hurts, and he feels a creeping sense of dread. 

Heedless of his  _ aching  _ body, he pushes himself into a sitting position and threads his fingers in his hair, choked noises leaving his mouth. It wasn’t real. It was a nightmare. A nightmare. It wasn’t real. 

_ It wasn’t real wasn’t real wasn’t real just a nightmare a memory a  _ **_very bad_ ** _ memory  _

The small, almost gagging noises turn into a scream, something so weak it’s almost ghostlike, and he curls into himself, biting into his hand to muffle the noise.

Everything still feels surreal, like he’s trapped in the same fuzzy-headed state he was in for months after the ruins. Feeling like a prisoner within his own body, with the voices screaming so much that he couldn’t use his own voice. Walking through his life like a ghost, barely able to do anything. 

He doesn’t want to feel like that again.

He can’t breathe, his chest feels painful and tight, and he can’t stop another scream, melting into a weak sob. His hand is bloody and he can taste it and it doesn't help. 

He tugs his blankets around himself, burying himself in the heavy fabric to try and feel a tiny bit less like he’s falling into pieces. He did that a lot when he was smaller, especially when blankets were more of a novelty to him. (He never had any nice ones growing up.) 

His head is all hot and fuzzy and filled with leaden pain, like it was smashed against obsidian again, and he can’t form clear thoughts. He just feels so small and scared, like a wandering child in hell, like a concussed, broken teenager in the ruins of the Blood God’s temple.

_ Someone’s here _ , the voices choose to inform him very loudly. He whimpers and pulls the blankets over his head, muffling all noise from outside. He brings Marnie close and grips her soft body in his hands. He might get blood on her, but he doesn't care.

“Techno? Why are you hiding?” The mattress dips slightly as someone sits on it’s edge, and a hand tugs at his blankets. “It’s alright. What’s wrong?” 

Techno lets out another choked scream as the blankets are pulled away,  _ no no no those were keeping me safe! _ He reaches up to pull them back, but a shock of pain so bad it winds him stops him, and he’s left gasping for air. 

“Hey, hey. Shhh.” A hand brushes through his hair, the contact gentle. “You’re okay, shh. I’m here.”

The pieces click together in his mind, and the current situation becomes a tiny bit more clear. He’s at home, in his own bed. He’s sick with a fever-- something to do with potions-- and the wound on his chest is… is from the execution.  _ His  _ execution. He was _executed_. He was dragged away from his home, heavily drugged, and executed in public. How many people saw? Oh,  _ god _ . 

He was rotting. He can tell in the lingering itchiness of his wounds, how sore he is, how he’s trembling. (The method to reverse it makes him shake for days.)

He doesn't know why he feels so horrified and violated. Isn't this what he does to other people? Kill them and ruin their lives? At least he has the decency to be honest about it and not be overly sadistic...

(He thinks they realized how his hair was his vulnerability, because someone was always holding it.)

Fresh tears pour down his cheeks and he chokes, reaching up despite the pain and clutching onto Phil’s hand like a scared child. He pulls it to his chest and hugs his arm, hating himself for how he’s breaking, but unable to stop himself. 

“I know, little one,” Phil murmurs, raising his other hand to cup his cheek. The petname makes him whimper like a struck animal; he hasn’t used it since he was so, so small, still curled up in a pile of blankets with wither eating away at him despite all efforts to heal him. “I know.” 

He gasps for breath and collapses back against the pillows, still sobbing. He can’t even form words, not even in piglin, nothing coherent in his mind save for pain and shock. Everything seems to crash down on top of him, from his earliest days to his teenage years to his adulthood, in piles and waves of ache and pain and fear. 

He’s never been one to admit it, but he’s been so  _ scared  _ for so long.

"Is he alright?" Tommy's voice asks softly. "I heard him crying..." 

"I don't know if he's alright," Phil replies, rubbing his cheek softly. He's looking over at his other son, Techno can just see it through his blurry vision. "But I'm trying to help him. Do you want to help?"   


"Yeah," the bed dips on the other side, and Tommy's hand wraps around one of his own, tugging it from around Phil's arm. He laces their fingers together gently. "It's alright, Techno. You're all safe here, I promise you." 

And he chokes on another sob, because _god_ does he sound like Wilbur. And thinking about that only crushes him further, how much their older brother has influenced him.

"Take a deep breath," someone advises him (he can't tell who, honestly) and he does it on instinct, following the order. His chest burns and he swears something shifts. "There you go. You're going to be alright." 

If he could speak, he would say _I don't think so._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooo man you can really tell i'm feelin a bit sad from how sad everyone is here lmao
> 
> thank you for reading as always!!!! i love you all dearly mwah mwah /p go drink some water/have a snack and if ur like me and essentially pulled an all nighter go to sleep!!!
> 
> i am not sorry for how nonsensical everything i'm writing is, i don't care at all :-) we are here for a good time not a long time fellas. i've gotten to the point where as soon as i finish editing i just slam the post button. no time for overthinking i got self indulgence to craft n a nap to take!!!
> 
> im really gonna try to answer comments this time!!! (shakes fist at myself) you people deserve my attention!!!
> 
> also fun hint for next chapter: it's gonna be tommy-centric most likely :-) maybe a nice return-to-form with a single pov chapter??? hm??? 
> 
> also 2x im so glad everyone liked the dream chapter. i love how many people commented a variation of 'you're making me feel _sympathy???_ for _**dream???**_ ' it was very funny thank you.


	15. all those shadows almost killed your light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a nice lil late-night chapter, not as tommy-centric as i would have wanted, to tide us over before i get into The Next Plot Event 
> 
> posting this one from mobile after writing most of it like that, so it might look a bit wonky. ill edit when im back on my laptop! 
> 
> this one is a little shorter and lighter, not much happens, but we get some nice character stuff and we are finally out of execution day!!! wooo boy that was a long day lmao. also by the sunk cost fallacy, you guys are required to read whatever i post /j 
> 
> title from safe and sound by taylor swift ft the civil wars

They get downstairs from the loft, and Phil seems to become smaller in an instant. Tommy watches warily as he leans back on the wall next to the ladder and sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and staring up at the ceiling. 

“...are you okay?” Tommy asks. He’s seen Phil like this before, incredibly exhausted and seeming to crumble below the weight of stress, but he’d like to avoid it getting any worse.  _ (He’s not leaving again.)  _

“Yeah, yeah…” he raises a hand to rub his temple. His eyes are troubled. “I’m alright.” 

Silence settles. The fire crackles. Their two guests are quiet; he can hear the small noises Ranboo makes when he’s nervous, but that’s all. 

“You know he’s going to be fine,” Tommy adds, glancing up at the ladder. “Right?” 

Phil smiles, the sight pale and little more than a tilt of his lips. “Yeah, I know. He’s going to get better. I just…” he trails off, and _god_ , seeing that uncertainty makes him feel more afraid than he has in a while. 

He moves his hand away from his head and looks up at him with those exhausted blue-green eyes, the shape somehow similar to his own despite the impossibility. (When he was small, people often mistook him for being Phil’s biological son. It always made him so happy.) 

He raises his arms and gives another pale smile. “Come here, let me hold you for a minute.” 

Tommy accepts it, letting himself be wrapped up in his father’s arms and wings, wrapping his own arms around his shoulders. 

(In a way that feels like irony, he’s very aware of how frail they both are. Even with his prowess in fighting and the muscle he can feel on his body even through his clothes, he’s aware that Phil is just like him, hollow bones and delicate, intricate wings and emotions that haven’t been handled yet.)

(he wants to hold him closer.) 

He rests his head against the top of his. He’s not sure when he got so much taller than him, but it’s kind of nice. It feels nice, to be held and hold in return. (Even after all this time, he’s fairly sure he’s still touch-starved, constantly desperate for soft affection. He could have cried when Ranboo hugged him earlier.) 

When they pull away, the knot of exhaustion and despair in Tommy’s chest has loosened a little, and Phil’s smile isn’t quite as fake. 

“I should make something for dinner, huh,” he says, and when his voice cracks just slightly, he doesn’t mention it. 

-

The night settles on them. The snow is still coming down, and Tommy watches, as the light fades, the last traces of the morning’s event disappearing beneath the white. 

Ranboo had asked to stay the night just after dinner, during which he ate very little. Just looking at him, he could tell he was terrified that he’d be kicked out regardless of the storm. 

Phil hadn’t even blinked when he said  _ yeah, you can stay _ . 

Now, he’s laying curled up in front of the fire, resting his head on Tommy’s lap. He’s taken to gently running his fingers through his hair, when he got the okay for it-- his hair is very soft, and the different colors have different textures. 

“Have you ever noticed that?” He asks when he notices it, twirling a strand of black from his bangs around his index finger. 

“Mmm… not really?” Ranboo blinks at the fire and then yawns, jaw stretching unnaturally wide. It’s frightening until he reminds himself  _ duh, enderman. _

“The black side is a lot softer,” he explains, brushing his fingers through it. It’s nice. Grounding. 

He’s starting to… calm down? He’s been jittery and anxious all day (see: breaking down giggling in Phil’s arms because he saw Dream’s dead body) and while he’s feeling less sick, he can feel the weight of exhaustion pulling him down, pushing him into the floorboards. He hasn’t been this tired since he first got here. 

The fact that he’s worried for Techno doesn’t help. He seems to be completely unraveling; he’s never seen him cry like that, not even when Dream cut his hair or when he and Wilbur had that fight. Techno doesn’t cry; he lashes out and he gets angry and he gets fidgety and twitchy from anxiety, but he doesn’t  _ cry _ . 

And yet, he had been sobbing so hard he was almost screaming just a bit ago, clinging to Phil with all he has, obviously in pain. He was so upset he couldn’t speak.

Is this how he felt when he was so sick? Unable to keep his thoughts from straying to the darkest possible scenarios about his brother? 

His shame about putting him through all that rises in his throat again. How could he do that to him? Especially when he was evidently living his own life, happy and alone?  


He stares down at Ranboo’s hair, fiddling with the coarser white strands. 

“Are you okay?” His friend asks quietly, still staring into the fireplace. “You got quiet…” 

Tommy sighs, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes. “Yeah, just… tired, I guess. I should probably go to bed soon.” 

He yawns again, prompting him to do the same. It makes them both laugh. “You can go ahead,” he says, through giggles. “I need to sleep too.” 

He shrugs, glancing up from Ranboo to check briefly around them. Phil is at the table, cleaning his wings and muttering to himself, and Ghostbur has taken his usual place in the armchair, curled up impossibly small and scribbling in a book. 

“...I don’t really want to sleep,” he admits. “I get really bad nightmares.”  _ And the last time I woke up, I was nearly kidnapped and my brother was arrested and nearly died.  _

“That makes sense,” Ranboo says, turning to look up at him. “I do too. And I sleepwalk.”

“I wake up crying a lot,” he adds. “Do you?” 

“Sometimes,” he shrugs as best he can while lying down. “I don’t usually remember them when I’m awake. What do you have nightmares about?” 

He keeps fidgeting with his hair. “A lot,” he mutters. “Dream, most of the time… and stuff that he did.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh.” He looks distant and distracted, fiddling with his tie. “I’m sorry that he messed with you so much. He… makes me uncomfortable, so… I kinda get it.” His long tail curls up to rest on his stomach, the furred end twitching. 

Tommy sighs and his shoulders sink. His bad wing spasms and he winces, biting into his tongue. “So, you sleepwalk?” He asks, looking for a distraction. 

“Mhm,” Ranboo nods, covering his mouth as he yawns again. His eyes are getting lidded-- he’s sure he looks the same. “Not every night… but sometimes I just wake up in weird places ‘cause I walked there. I do stuff sometimes, but… I can never remember it.” His face gets a little troubled and he rubs his cheek with his fist. 

He nods, patting the top of his head. “That sounds scary…” 

He shrugs again. “Mm, not really. It worries me sometimes, but I don’t think about it a lot.” He turns back to the fire and shifts his head against his lap. The physical affection is so nice, and Tommy feels warm with more than just the roaring fire. 

He keeps brushing his fingers through his hair, pulling his wings in closer. “I’m gonna sleep right here,” he mutters, eyes fluttering. 

“Alright,” he agrees, leaning up into his hand. “‘Night, Tommy.” 

He hums lowly in response. 

(He loves the affection, so much, but it makes his stomach hurt in an odd way. 

It reminds him of Tubbo. And he  _ misses  _ Tubbo. His thoughts on him are… complicated, right now, but he definitely misses him.

It feels like his soft memories of him from when they were younger, before all of this, and the memory of him pouring weakness potion into Techno’s mouth while grinning, are so separate as to be completely different people. 

When they were younger, they were incredibly affectionate. Tommy was even more clingy than he is now, and Tubbo had always allowed it; the two of them spent a lot of time cuddling and holding onto eachother. They would sit right next to eachother at the table or on the couch, they would share a bed, and Tubbo was one of very few people allowed to touch his wings, even before all of this. 

“Your feathers are so soft,” Tubbo sighed, pressing his face against his back. His fingers stroked along the length of his wing. “I like petting them.”

Tommy shivered and then giggled at the feeling, his chest feeling warm.

And now, something just seems… off. Even before he was exiled, Tubbo seemed to be changing, subtly and slowly. (He hasn’t been the same since Techno killed him. The memory makes a small flame of rage spark to life in Tommy’s chest.) 

And… he hasn’t seen him in a while, but just from the glimpse he got that morning… he can’t be doing well. He hopes the glee he saw on his face, the redness of his eyes, is just a problem of memory recall, affected by how distressed he was…

He places his hand over his compass and slides his fingers over the inscription.)

He sighs and closes his eyes. It’s going to hurt his back, sitting on the floor like this, sleeping sitting up, but he doesn’t want to move and disturb the peace he’s found himself feeling. 

(When he wakes up briefly, well into the night, he finds that there’s not only a blanket draped around his shoulders, but laid over Ranboo and Ghostbur, as well.) 

-

The sky is black when Phil steps off the porch. 

He knows he shouldn’t go far. And he won’t. 

Everyone is asleep. Tommy fell asleep sitting up, his hand still entangled in Ranboo’s two-tone hair, while his friend dozed on his lap. Ghostbur was snoring in the armchair when he left. And Techno hasn’t stirred since his fit earlier. He wrapped blankets around all of them.

He should have time. 

He draws in a deep breath, standing in the heavy snow, undisturbed since the storm ended. His wings are stretched out in the cool air and the wind is soothing against his feathers. 

When he takes off, it numbs his face. 

He doesn’t go far. Just to a small, nearby cave, that he saw one of his first times visiting. He’s flown to it a few times, just for the silence and calm of it all. 

He lands lightly, shaking out his wings and sighing deeply.

He rolls his shoulders, sore with the weight of his emotions and his wings. 

He sits down on the stone. His whole body slumps and he rubs his face. He’s not surprised when tears slide down his cheeks and wet his hands. 

The day is beginning to crash down around him. 

Tommy’s wing stretched out, an axe blade pressed against his feathers, his hysterical giggling, how he passed out on the floor. 

Techno’s rot-edged wound, how he clung to his arm, looking no older than he was when he met him, haze of a fever in his eyes. 

Ghostbur flickering with anger, his voice only a step away from his living counterpart’s voice, desperately wanting to fix things yet seeming so helpless. 

Hell, even Ranboo’s nervous state, how he wrapped Tommy up in a hug as soon as he looked like he was upset, how his voice trembled when he explained the arrest...

He buries his face in his hands. His wings wrap around his body like a hug, blocking out the cool wind with the thick feathers and muscles. 

He draws in a deep breath, catching on a sob. There’s too much, the guilt and trauma and grief pushing him flat to the ground, and he’s at the end of his rope. He can’t take much more of this, but he knows he’ll have to.

He owes it to his kids, both the two who are still alive and the one he slayed. He needs to be there for them. Especially now, with how Tommy is on the edge of breaking down, how Techno  _ has  _ already broken. How Ghostbur looks miserable, trapped in his memory loss and desire to help things.

He needs to help them. He wishes he could just erase all that’s hurt them, even his own involvement in it; he just wants them to be  _ happy  _ again. 

He has clear memories of when his boys were happy; Techno’s excited squeals when he learned how to braid his hair, Wilbur’s eyes lighting up when he got his first guitar, Tommy’s tiny wings fluttering when he picked him up and held him close. 

And now things are bad and getting worse. 

Tommy was abused, his wing was broken (god, the psychological and physical trauma of that is too much for him to even imagine) and he doesn’t know if he’s noticed how often he hurts himself. 

Techno was  _ executed _ , he used a totem (the fear that struck him at that confession made him want to be sick, he was so scared of the blood he’d find being the same awful shade of his own) and judging by how he reacted when he woke up earlier… a lot of things are crushing him.

And Ghostbur… he can’t even get into what must be wrong with him. 

(After he killed Wilbur, he washed blood off his hands for what felt like two hours. His skin was raw, and yet he could still feel it.) 

He doesn’t know what to do. He never really has. 

He pulls his wings in closer, pressing his face against the feathers. His fingers pull at the collar of his nightshirt, moving it aside enough to withdraw his ring from where it hangs on a thin chain against his chest.

He slides it around his finger and holds it gently against his lips, tears dripping down his cheeks. 

(“You were married?” Wilbur asked. His long legs dangled off the edge of the pier and he leaned back on his elbows, eyes on the sky. 

Phil kept his eyes on the water, rubbing his thumb against his ring. “...yeah. I was.”

“What was she like?” He tilted his head to the side to look up at him. “Would she have liked us?” 

His smile was pale. “She was amazing.” That’s all he could get out on that, throat feeling tight. You’d think the years would dampen the grief. “And she would have _loved_ you.”)

He lets himself cry. Not for long, no more than a few minutes, but he allows himself to cry. The air freezes the tears to his skin, and he begins to shiver-- he didn’t dress for the weather, so desperate to be  _ away _ .

With a sigh, he gets up. He places his ring back against his chest, the metal warm, and he runs a hand through his hair. 

He flies back to the cabin, limbs feeling heavy. He stumbles when he lands, and he feels off-balance the entire walk back inside the house. 

He’s still crying.

When he climbs up into the loft, after managing the fire, Techno is awake. He’s sitting, half-slumped against the wall behind his bed, holding his communicator and running his fingers over it. 

“You’re awake?” Phil asks, voice a little too soft. He wipes his face dry on his sleeve and sits down on the edge of his bed, holding his head in one hand. “How are you feeling?” 

In the dim light of a barely-burning lantern, he can just see him shrug. “Not good,” he says, voice weak. “It hurts.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, watching him from his bed. “Anything I can do?”

He lets out a low, amused snort. “Kill me,” he jokes weakly. 

Phil’s feathers ruffle and he has to bite down more sobs. He doesn’t-- he doesn’t know, it’s fine. He doesn’t know how that makes him feel.

( _“Kill me, Phil! Kill me!”_ ) 

(He refuses to tell him. He knows it’s selfish, but he can’t even imagine the betrayal on his face when he confesses.) 

“I can’t do that,” he says, pretending that his voice doesn’t crack. “You should get some more sleep.” 

He fiddles with the device in his hands. “...had a nightmare again,” he admits. “Scared to sleep anymore.” 

Silence, then. Phil stares at the ceiling. 

(He knows, logically, that the world is unfair. That horrible things happen to those you love most. 

That those you love most can  _ do _ horrible things; as much as he adores Techno, wants nothing but the best for him, he knows what he’s capable of. He doesn’t doubt that on some level, the days events were justified.

But god, he hates that knowledge.) 

“I really wish I could help,” he says, and fresh tears cut down his cheeks, hot in the cool room. 

“S’okay,” Techno replies in a slurred voice, making him sound even younger. “Gonna read a book or somethin’. Will the light… bother you?” 

He shakes his head, moving to lay out on his back on his bed. “No, it’s fine. Go ahead.” 

“Alright.” The lantern brightens slightly, and Techno’s footsteps cross the room, quiet. “Sleep well.” 

He rests his arm over his face. “Goodnight, Techno.” 

Polite as ever, he doesn’t mention how obvious it is that he’s crying. 

-

Tommy wakes up to something smashing in the kitchen. 

He jolts, eyes flying open, hands scrambling for the nearest-- weapon, he supposes, even though he doesn’t have one. 

Ranboo sits up as well, a drowsy and shrill chirp leaving his mouth. His mouth moves to speak, but all that comes out is inhuman warbling with a questioning inflection; definitely whatever the enderman language is. 

Tommy turns his head towards the kitchen, his eyes wide with alarm ( _ Dream Dream Dream oh god not again can’t do this again _ —) and finds Techno standing in the middle of the room, looking bewildered and tired. Broken glass sparkles on the floor, amid spilled honey. 

“Oh,” his shoulders slump and he gives a tired laugh. “You okay, Techno?” His voice gets soft as he observes him. He’s put a shirt on-- a sweater, actually, that soft blue one-- and his hair is down, slightly wet. (He must have taken a bath already, despite it being just past dawn.) 

“Y-yeah,” he croaks out, voice completely wrecked. He supposes that’s from crying so long and so hard last night. “I’m… I’m fine.” He leans on the counter, seeming to consider his words. 

Ranboo makes a disgruntled noise and flops back down to the floor, pillowing his head in his arms. His ears flick and settle against the sides of his head, and his tail curls over his side. He’s making sleeping sounds within seconds. 

( _ Note to self: Ranboo is  _ not  _ a morning person.) _

“Can you… can you come help me clean this up?” Techno asks, sounding as if he’s on the verge of tears again. “Leanin’ over makes my head hurt.”

“Yeah, sure.” Tommy gets up from the floor. He was right; his back  _ aches _ from sitting on the floor. “What were you trying to do?” 

“...don’t really know,” his voice is still weak, trembling, with a growly edge and even lower, quieter tones than usual. He’s surprised he’s talking at all, honestly. “Lookin’ for something to eat, maybe.”

He yawns and joins him in the kitchen, stretching his wings idly. They’re stiff-- he’ll have to go outside for more space later. 

(The idea makes his chest hurt. Dream… could come back. He could… hurt him again.)

(God, the idea of what would have happened to him, had Phil not woken up and defended him... it’s enough to make him scream. Dream would have succeeded in completely breaking him, this time.) 

He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. He cleans up the broken glass and honey from the floor with an old rag, tossing it all in the trash.

Techno doesn’t seem to care, leaning back on the counter, eyes closed and face… not relaxed, but flat, so tired as to be calm. “I… I’m tired,” he mutters. “What happened…?” 

Tommy’s stomach drops. He clears his throat and goes to wash his hands. “Do you… not remember?” he says hesitantly. “You were… uh, kind of executed, Techno.” 

He blinks a few times, hugging himself loosely. With his hair down, falling in loose pink waves around his cheeks and shoulders, and his face rendered soft with exhaustion and agony, he looks very young. 

“Oh,” he says, practically growls, “Yeah, I remember. I thought… I thought that it was just a nightmare...” He raises his hand up, and Tommy has to jerk forward and pull it away before he bites himself. “...I’m sorry.” His eyes look sad, drawn down with pain. 

For a moment, Tommy feels like he’s the older one here. Not in a bad way, but there’s a flash of protectiveness, of wanting to pull him into his arms and keep him safe from the world that only wants to cause them all pain. It’s strong enough to make his eyes tear up. 

He sighs and intertwines their fingers, keeping Techno’s hand away from his mouth. (He remembers him doing biting himself a lot when they were younger-- Wilbur would get  _ so  _ angry with him.) “It’s alright,” he assures him. “From what you said, it sounded pretty nightmarish.”

He shrugs a little, swaying against the counter. “It… wasn’t good,” he admits. “...but it’s over now.” His voice sounds a little desperate. “Right?” 

“Yeah,” he says, keeping his voice soft. “You’re here now, and you’re safe.” 

A few seconds of silence pass, before Techno sniffles and rubs his face. “I need to eat…” He sounds unenthusiastic. He feels a profound sympathy. 

“I’d offer to make something for you, but I still can’t cook to save my life,” Tommy tries to smile, tries to joke. He gets the tiniest smile in response. “I think we still have the bread you made the other day. How about a sandwich?” 

“You don’t have to do anythin’ for me,” he mumbles, rubbing his neck. “You can go back to sleep.” 

He shrugs. His eyes itch with exhaustion and he’d love to lay out in his bed for a bit, but he’s very aware of a strange desire to take care of his brother right now. “I’ll take a nap later. No offense, but you look like you’re going to pass out if you walk around too much. Sit down.” 

That earns him a small, annoyed grunt and an eye roll, but he looks grateful when he sits down at the table. 

-

Ranboo tugs his suit into a slightly more presentable state as he walks towards his house. He’s still itchy from the snow and he’s very tired from all the walking, but he’s ultimately content. 

Some of the guilt is gone. Technoblade is alive and maybe not well, but safe with his family. He messaged Niki this morning, telling her the good news (he had too much on his mind last night) and she was enthusiastic in her reply, telling him that Techno had informed her of the same, and that she was very happy they were both okay. 

And not to mention: he got so much physical affection yesterday. Just thinking about the fact that he felt so safe with his head lying on Tommy’s lap, not even pausing to feel afraid that he was too vulnerable, too exposed, or being annoying… it makes his face get hot and his tail wag excitedly. 

He opens the door into his house, excited to get inside and maybe take a short nap (he slept comfortably, but not very much) and he stops short at the sight of a figure in his living room. 

“Oh, you’re home?” Tubbo says lightly, turning to him, brows raised as he smiles. In the low lighting, it feels sinister. 

“...yeah,” Ranboo waves a hand hesitantly. “Hi, Tubbo. What’re you doing here?” ( _ Why are you in my house? _ ) 

His friend smiles wider and folds his hands behind his back. “You disappeared yesterday. I was worried, especially when you were gone overnight.” 

Anxiety curls like an eel in his stomach and his tail flicks against his leg. “Oh, I went for a walk and got super lost,” he winces when his voice cracks.

“Really,” he replies neutrally, looking him in the eyes. He knows— he knows what that does to him. He can’t move. And it’s frightening, because Tubbo of all people has been very respectful of that. “Did it rain last night? Your ear is all... burnt.”

He can’t move to touch his ear, but it twitches minutely. “Uh, yeah. I, haha, wandered pretty far and it started raining. I forgot my umbrella, too.”

“That’s a shame,” he’s still smiling, polite. It doesn’t reach his eyes, red-rimmed and shining. ( _Is he drunk? Again?_ ) “I’m… ah, sorry about yesterday. I expected it to go much better.”

Ranboo chirps nervously, his mouth the only thing that can freely move. “It’s okay. I… it was justified.” He keeps his eyes on the scar along his jaw. “I mean, considering what he did…” 

“Still. I know it must have been upsetting; you told me you’ve never liked violence or blood.” Tubbo finally looks away and he draws in a deep breath. He was beginning to tremble. “I’m pretty disappointed he got away, but he won’t be doing anything to us for a while.” 

( _He wasn’t doing anything anyway._ ) 

“Yeah,” he nods, agreeable as ever. “Uh, I was about to take a nap… I didn’t sleep great last night.” He fiddles with his fingers; his blood-stained gloves are tucked into his back pocket. “I’ll see you later…?” 

His smile becomes more genuine, and he nods. “Of course. There’s a meeting later, will you be there?” 

He shudders a little at the idea. Meetings tend to devolve into shouting, and while he gets why, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate it. “Maybe…” 

“That’s good enough. I hope you can get some sleep.” He brushes past him as he walks to the door, grasping his arm as he passes. “I’ll see you later.” 

He nods with a quiet goodbye, and when the door clicks softly shut behind him, he slumps. 

He lays down in bed, and does not sleep. 

-

“Where are you going?” 

Techno’s hands spasm and he drops his braces back onto the table. “Outside. Gotta check for threats.” 

“ _No_.” Phil says, giving him a dark look from across the table. “You’re not doing that. You still have a fever and you can barely walk, Tech.” 

He gives a light growl and yanks on his braces, tightening the laces with his teeth. “Yes I am, and you can’t stop me.”

He strides over to the door to grab his cloak, wrapping it around his shoulders and pretending it doesn’t hurt his painfully twitching hands when he clasps it.

He knows, logically, that he’s right. Standing up is making his head spin, and he should stay down to let his ribs heal. It’s only been two days since the execution.   


(He’s had nightmares the entire time, and when he’s awake, the voices do little but scream incoherently for blood. Even now, they chant.)

But honestly, he’s not following his logic right now. 

He’s following his paranoia.   


”Be back in a bit,” he calls behind him, and shuts the door before he can be stopped. 

He steps into the snow, and it crunches lightly under his boots. 

(He feels unbalanced. Like he’ll collapse any moment.) 

With measured, slow steps, he stalks around the house, both alert and nearly half-asleep. He feels Nether-hot, and he doubts his ability to fight. 

But he needs to be sure. 

He needs to know they’re _safe_. 

He holds the axe more for stability than for protection. It’s heavy and familiar, and it’s blade flashes in the low sunlight. 

(His ribs ache, a raw, white-hot pain. He might be bleeding again.)

He makes his way around the house, slow and steady. His head feels fuzzy and he isn’t sure how focused he’s going to be if someone attacks him. 

“Techno,” Phil calls from the porch, sharp and cold. “Back inside,  _ now _ .” 

He shakes his head, preparing to make another lap around the house, farther out, closer to the trees. 

(Lurking, behind that thick birch, potions and axes, golden wings and orange fur and gleaming pointed horns.) 

(Dream in the window, listening to Tommy beg for his life.) 

“ _ Technoblade _ .” The scolding tone makes him flinch in place and he goes wide-eyed, staring up at him from the ground. “Inside.  _ Now _ .” 

Immediately, he follows the demand, almost on instinct. He goes up the stairs and to the door without thinking, and by the time he opens it and steps inside, he’s already being pulled along, sat forcefully in a chair. 

“Why were you outside?” Tommy asks, sitting on the edge of the counter with a mug in his hands. “You shouldn’t be up.” 

Techno shrugs, his head suddenly heavy again. The flash of clarity that came with his paranoia is fading, and he’s going back to the tired, feverish place he’s been in since the execution… complete with extra pain from using his arms for  _ thirty fucking seconds _ . 

“I’m going to lift up your shirt and check your bandages,” Phil says, setting his cloak aside (when did he take it off?) and tugging up the white fabric of his laced shirt. “Shit. Techno, you’re bleeding.” 

He frowns and stares at the table. “...sorry.” His head aches and the only reason he’s not crying is because he’s too worn out. 

“You need to be more careful,” he says, letting go of his shirt. “I just put them on, so you should be fine for now. But you need to  _ rest _ . We’re perfectly capable of protecting ourselves while you heal.” 

“Again, Techno, I’m a big, strong man,” Tommy pipes up from the counter. “And Phil is _terrifying_. Angel of Death, and all. Nobody’s gonna fuck with us.” 

He sinks against the back of the chair, tail flicking and then drawing around his waist. “...just want to make sure you’re safe,” he mutters. “M’scared you’ll get hurt and I won’t be able to help. It’s my job, have to protect you…” 

And because the fever, the exhaustion, the hot pain, makes his tongue so loose, he continues with “‘m not worth it if I can’t— can’t _protect_ you…” 

They all fall silent. He draws his braced hands up to his chest and presses them to his wound, feeling the low hum of pain. 

Phil sighs and pushes back his hair, resting his hand on top of his head. He wants to lean up into it, and he’s just weak enough to do it. 

“You’re very much  _ worth it  _ even when you can’t protect us, Techno.” He promises, all his rage fading into something soft. “We’re not going to… stop  _ loving you _ because you’re hurt and need to rest.” 

(“No, no— Techno, lay down, you’re sick!” 

“But they’re out there, they’re gonna _hurt_ you—”

“I can handle it! Go back to bed, I’ve got this.”)

Tommy makes an agreeing sound, slipping off the counter with a light sound and coming over to his side, touching his shoulder. “You do a lot to keep us safe,” he says, all too sincere. “You deserve a break… even if you’re only taking it because you’re hurt.” 

Techno swallows forcefully. He thought he was too worn out to cry anymore, after that being most of what he did for two days, but he feels the sting of tears now. 

(He cried a lot, as a kid. At one point, in his teen years— during the empire, maybe— he joked that he stopped crying because he got it all out as a child.) 

“You need to heal, and for that to happen, you need us to let us take care of you,” Phil pets his hair lightly, and then it’s all over. 

(Again, his hair is his weakness.) 

“Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll… I’ll rest. I’ll…” it tastes awful on his tongue to admit it, “let you take care of me.” 

It’s the first time in a while that his father doesn’t look completely exhausted. “Good. Now, let’s get you laid down again.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slams post button and falls the fuck asleep* 
> 
> honestly idk if this will even stay up lmao im buzzed and making Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr under the same username!


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